Walk Unafraid
by Enlee
Summary: House is recovering from his gunshot wounds. He says he is fine, but Cuddy knows better. Huddy. Chapter 40 is now up! The Last Chapter. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Another Huddy story for you! Please excuse the continuity, or lack thereof, in the timeline from the last story and House getting shot. Anyways, here's the first of many chapters. Bon Appetit._

* * *

There were many sleepless nights where Cuddy stared at the ceiling, rerunning the entire scenario through her busy mind, hoping for a happy ending. A psycho waltzed into her hospital and shot one of her doctors in broad daylight in front of three witnesses. There was no doubt in her mind that the mystery gunman meant to kill House. By sheer dumb luck or bad aim, or both, House was still very much alive. So was the gunman. A complete stranger. House's underlings swore they had never seen him before. He was still on the loose and still nameless. Foreman, Cameron and Chase were able to give detailed descriptions to the police, but so far all their efforts were fruitless. The guy just dropped off the planet. _I hope he never gets back on_, Cuddy thought morosely. _I hope he gets run over by a truck. I hope the son-of-a-bitch is dead and buried_. 

What if House had died? Cuddy made great efforts to not examine that scenario at any great depth. It always made her cry.

Even with all the extravagant care he received, and even though he wasn't ready to walk around yet, House demanded to go home. The more she tried to talk him out of it, the louder his demands became. The boredom, the needles, the tubes, the spectactularly uncomfortable hospital bed, and the inability to escape from the prying eyes of any moron who happened to walk by his room were slowly nudging his patience and sanity to the edge of a black bottomless nirvana. She made him wait another week, and was forced to check him out herself after he threw his GameBoy at gawking anesthesiologist.

Still, she didn't want to leave him home alone, not at first. Though the ketamine appeared to be helping with the pain, he had still been shot, twice, and even Dr. Gregory House needed some help getting around after that. House, more annoyed at the thought of needing a babysitter than his wounds, all but threw her out the door and insisted he could survive a few hours on his own. Cuddy finally left, only after he promised to keep his cellphone nearby and answer her calls. He promised, but only if she didn't call during _General Hospital_. She watched him walk back to the sofa without using his cane, then left.

He was doing well, which held a few surprises in its own right. Cuddy had been afraid of another recurring nightmare, given the trauma he had been through that would have been completely justified. Instead, House slept calmly and quietly, averaging a good six or seven hours a night. The bottle of Vicodin sat on the nightstand, its familiar rattle now rarely heard.

At the hospital, Cuddy checked the TV listings to see when his soaps were on. She called ten minutes after they were over. He answered on the second ring. "I'm still alive, boss." She couldn't help but smile.

* * *

"I'm not worried," the diagnostician said, looking up with tired eyes as Cuddy sat at the edge of the sofa. 

"You should be," Cuddy told him curtly. "He still hasn't been caught. Next time he'll make sure that he finishes the job."

"Is there going to be a next time, Lisa?"

"Greg, I'm just saying–"

"Is he going to get that chance? Is he going to walk into the hospital and up to my office again without a second look from anyone? Is that what you're trying to tell me? I hope not, Lisa, for your sake and mine."

Her eyes turned dark and angry. "Over my dead body," she said stonily. "But you said he seemed to know you. He asked for you by name."

"Yes."

"If he knows your name, he could very easily find out where you live."

"Yes, Lisa, he could. In fact, I'll bet he already knows. He could be standing outside the door right now, listening to our conversation," House remarked nonchalantly. "He could be on the roof next door with a sniper scope. He could cut the brake line on my motorcycle. He would wait for me to cross the street and run me down."

"Greg, _please_–"

"The doors and windows are locked," House broke in when he saw that she was getting upset, biting her lower lip. "He's not getting in without a battering ram. If he has a lick of common sense left, he'll be on the other coast now. Maybe that idiot thinks I'm dead. I don't know and I don't care. But if he knows I'm alive and wants me to look over my shoulder at every little shadow and thump for the rest of eternity, it's not going to happen."

"I'm not asking you to look over your shoulder," she said solemnly. "I'm just asking you to be careful."

"I'm not going out there with a target on my back, Lisa."

"He might come back, Greg."

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't."

"What if he does?"

"Then he does. I'm not going to live my life any differently."

"All right. Just promise me you'll lock the doors and windows every night. Can you do that for me?" Cuddy asked, concern tinging every word.

"They're locked, just like always."

"Always?"

"Always. See, nothing different. The bad guy isn't going to win this time."


	2. Chapter 2

Their time alone was something Cuddy always looked forward to. When House was away from people and noise, in the comforting familiarity of his apartment or her home, the need to put up his defenses from whatever was driving him crazy at the moment disappeared. He could relax and open up a little. Not that Gregory House was going to share every single solitary detail about his life with her. She had the feeling that he only told her what he wanted her to know. But there was a change in him when they were alone together, an almost physical change as if he was pulling off a mask and allowed to be himself, more or less, and not the legendary misanthrope who haunted the corridors of the nearby hospital.

"Have you had any Vicodin today?" Cuddy asked carefully.

He was still stretched out on the sofa with a scruffier than usual beard and tired eyes, flickering candle flames instead of bright spotlights. Catching up on all the sleep that had eluded him for who knows how many years. But the minute the question left her mouth he was back on red alert, his defenses to fire when ready. His eyes took on the hard glare of suspicion. The mask was pulled on again. Cuddy's breath stopped dead in her throat.

"No," he answered flatly, as if he had been waiting for that question all day. He's had plenty of time to think about a lot of things lately. "Have you?"

"When was the last time you had one?" she continued, ignoring his sarcasm. She was amazed at how tolerant she had become to his wisecracks. She had to build up a tolerance or else beat him senseless with the nearest heavy object. Building up a tolerance was less messy and showed him that he couldn't always push her buttons without some kind of consequence.

"It's been a few days."

"How many days is a 'few'?"

"What's with the third degree?" He was getting more than a bit irritated at the sudden barrage of questions. Couldn't she ever just look and see he was fine? Did she always have to question him into the wee hours of the morning? "How long have we known each other now? All these years and you still have to question me. Have you suddenly realized that I'm addicted to painkillers? Have you decided on the spur of the moment to be bothered by that _now_?"

"Answer my question."

"Answer mine."

"How many days, Greg?" she asked, not giving an inch.

"Five. Okay, it's been five days. Happy now? Should I start keeping a post-shooting journal for you? Do you want to know what I had for breakfast or how many cups of coffee I've had today?"

"That's not necessary," she said in a tone that was pure coolness. Her own defenses were up. It was going to take more than a few sharp barbs from him to get her rattled. "Does your leg hurt?"

"No, but my stomach and neck hurt a little. I think I was shot in those places. You might want to make sure about that."

"I'm pretty sure that's what happened."

"Good thing it wasn't silver bullets, huh?"

Cuddy straightened up and swiped some hair out of her eyes. "You walked without your cane today," she announced importantly.

"You walk without a cane every day," he said, sitting up with a grunt. "I'll start making a big deal out of it if you want me to."

"You weren't limping."

"And your point is...?"

"My God, you aren't taking Vicodin, you're leg doesn't hurt, and you aren't limping. Do you know what this means for–"

"Judging from the dark circles under your eyes," House broke in, "it means that you've spent entirely too much time worrying about _my_ addiction."

"I'm not worried about your addiction. I'm worried about _you_."

"You should spend more time worrying about the hospital instead of me. It's a waste of time."

"No, it's not. Don't ever say that."

"I already did."

"You're worth every second of my time. You know that as well as I do."

"Hmm...you're turning into a regular mother hen. Let me guess, it's another one of those silly things that couples do," he said with a thin smirk.

Her glare hardened into a thick sheet of ice. "There's _nothing_ silly about you getting shot or the pain you have had to live with for years."

"There's a silly side to everything, Lisa. You just have to know where to look."

"Goddammit, are you even listening to me? Are you so dense that you can't see there are people around here who care about you?"

"I can count them on one hand."

"That's all you need."

The smirk melted into a smile. "And my number-one fan is sitting right here beside me. Isn't that right?" He held out his hand. She took it without hesitation.


	3. Chapter 3

Gregory House, in the flesh, was sitting right there next to her. She could feel his body heat, see his unshaven face, see his hair sticking out in all directions, see his world-weary grin, hear his tired, gravelly voice. He was back in his own home, back in his own clothes, resting on his own furniture. He was right back where he was supposed to be. It was just a matter of time before he got back to the hospital, and, for better or worse, back to seeing patients. The hospital was almost too quiet without him.

"You're tired. You should get some sleep," House said.

"I'm not tired." Cuddy replied, lying through her teeth.

"Yes, you are. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look someone punched you in the eyes."

"I'm not tired," she insisted, knowing he could see right through her pathetic charade.

"This conversation sounds familiar, doesn't it, Lisa?" the diagnostician said humorlessly. "Except the roles are usually reversed.

House was right, but she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with his sometimes painfully honest bluntness. The real reason for the dark circles under her eyes was that Cuddy knew she wouldn't see the recovering House in her dreams after she turned out the light and pulled the blankets up to her ear. It would be the House she saw after he was wheeled out of emergency surgery; unconscious, pale, gaunt, the bloody bandage on his neck. Somehow she managed to make it through the next few hours without breaking down. When the inevitable breakdown finally reached its zenith, she went out to her car and spent ten long minutes screaming and punching the steering wheel. Wilson and House's crew were all red-eyed and weeping so she had blended right in.

House looked his boss up and down with a scowl of disapproval. "When was the last time you slept through the night?" he asked pointedly, letting her know he wanted an honest answer. Now was not a good time to try to slip a lie, no matter how little or white it may be, past him.

"It's been a while," she mumbled. It was the truth, more or less, but it wasn't good enough.

"Would you mind being a little more specific?"

"Since the night before you were shot."

"Hmm...that's not good."

"I'll be fine."

"You sure about that?" House asked, still without a hint of humor in his words. "Have you ever gone this long without a decent nights' sleep?"

"No."

"I see. How much longer can you keep this up? Will it be two days from now or three before some hospital big-wig finds you asleep at your desk? They usually frown on things like that."

"Dammit," she choked back a sob, "I can't go to sleep without seeing you on that day–"

"That day is over and done with," he interrupted with calm, pleasant tone and a faint smile. "You're seeing me right here and now. As you can see, I'm just dandy. What's to stop you from seeing this tonight?"

Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She was too exhausted to hold them back anymore. "Nothing," Cuddy muttered, her voice cracking. She got up to snatch a tissue, then sat right back down and buried her face in the crook of his neck. "God, Greg, you could have _died_..."

"I didn't." He tilted her chin up until their eyes met. "See?"

"Yes, I see." Her gaze fell upon the right side of his neck, the patch of scar tissue. She felt her stomach knot up, then slowly untangle itself. It was just a scar. "You're right in front me."

"Yup, I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere."

"Please don't."

"You can count on that. Now, can you do something for me?" House asked.

"What?"

"Get some sleep. Insomnia isn't very becoming of you." He stood up with only a minimum of effort. It was only then that Cuddy realized his cane was nowhere in sight. "C'mon." He tugged at her arm. "I'll keep you company. I don't know about you but I hate to sleep alone."

Before they got the bedroom, Cuddy made him double-check the doors and windows. The entire time she was squeezing his hand hard enough to make the bones grind together.

There was none of the usual teasing as House tossed her a shirt and sweatpants to sleep in. She slipped into them without a word then crawled under the covers. House pulled on his own pair of sweats, clicked off the lamp, and joined her. Cuddy wasted no time in sliding over and wrapping her arms around him as if her life depended on it. House gently stroked her temple and said nothing.

Sleep still eluded her for a long while. When her shallow breathing finally became slow and steady, House smiled. He continued to gently stroke her temple long into the night. She would have done the same for him.


	4. Chapter 4

House slept in until 9am, waking up to a cloudy day. No dreams, but that wasn't a big deal. No dreams were better than bad dreams. He had seen both sides of the whole dreaming thing very clearly. Sleeping in was still a novelty for him. He lay there for a while under the cozy blankets, enjoying the fact that his leg wasn't killing him. The bottle of Vicodin was on the night table, next to the alarm clock. He hadn't touched it in five days. Today would make six. A new record for a new day. The thought made him giggle like a moron.

The other side of the bed was empty. He didn't even have to look. He didn't want to be alone, but there was nothing he could about that for the time being. Cuddy was, if anything, good at her job and being good meant having a good attendance record. Hopefully she could find the time to call or stop by early.

Cuddy usually woke him up when she was getting ready to go to the hospital after spending the night with him, no matter how careful she tried to be. There was always the sound of a drawer being opened, the television clicking on, the jangle of car keys that never failed to make his eyes fly wide open. At least until today. Today he slept right through it.

Interesting.

He sat up carefully, feeling shaky and lightheaded from the endless days of bed rest. Considering the major trauma he went through, feeling shaky wasn't all that bad. It was his stomach wound that still bothered him. It was still tender and was beginning to flare up again. He stood up and winced as his wound protested to going through even that little bit of exercise. However, it wasn't too bad. Even on a good day his leg pain had been ten times worse. He shuffled out of the bedroom, barely glancing at the cane propped up against the dresser.

In the kitchen, he made a beeline for the stove, checking to make sure Cuddy didn't use up all the water in the kettle. Still plenty in there, he switched on the heat. In the dish drainer he saw the remains of her morning: a coffee cup, a bowl. A single wayward corn flake stuck to the side of the sink. She never failed to wash up the dishes after her solitary breakfasts in his kitchen. Always so considerate.

* * *

Though the alarm hadn't been set, Cuddy still woke up with some time to spare. The sun hadn't bothered to take its place in the sky yet. The room was still covered with the remains of early morning darkness. She had slept about six hours, not enough to make up for the last few weeks, but definitely better than the night before. Her next day off was four long days away. She was going to have to tough it out until then. 

She looked down at House, who was almost lost in a tangle of blankets and shadows. He was in a deep slumber, his breathing slow and quiet. The memory of falling asleep in his arms and feeling him brush her temple made her heart ache. Wait, something was different about him this morning. What was it? Cuddy stared, trying to see what was right in front of her. It took three minutes before it hit her like a hammer to her thumb: he was sleeping on his right side. All the times she had shared his bed, and vice versa, she had _never_ seen him sleep on his right side. He had told her that caused a deep, primal, growling pain down to the bone. It lasted for days and a hundred Vicodin couldn't touch it. Yet there he was, his weight on his bad leg, without a single concern of what misery it might bring him in a few hours.

Because his leg wasn't hurting anymore?

His cane was over by the dresser, across the room. He usually kept it within easy reach.

The ketamine was helping him. That much was obvious even to a blind man.

But how much? And for how long? Could the pain come back tonight?

She didn't have all morning to mull over those thoughts. She needed to get ready and eat before facing another ungodly early meeting with some the dullest doctors and bureaucrats to ever walk the Earth. Stuffy, humorless bureaucrats always gave her a headache. Eight o'clock meetings were enough to give her a bleeding ulcer. There was a ten o'clock meeting after that. Good grief, it never ended. Getting out of bed was a chore.

The closet door stuck, then finally came open with what seemed to be a horrendously loud bone-jarring crack. What sounded like a soft thump to the rest of the world was a shotgun blast to House. Cuddy slowly turned her gaze to the bed, expecting House to sit bolt upright and gripe about all the goddamn noise. Instead she saw that he was still out like a broken light, not moving a muscle.

Unable to help herself, she padded back over to the bed. Just to be sure, she felt his pulse. Strong and steady. He was still miles away in dreamland. She had never seen any sleeping pills around his apartment. There was no pain to wake him up. Some light began to creep into the room. The sight of a bare-chested House looking so serene and peaceful made Cuddy want to say_ to hell with it _and crawl back into bed with him. It was tempting. So very tempting.

Temptation had to be put aside. This meeting couldn't be skipped. The stuffy bureaucrats would have her hide. She sighed and padded back to the closet, pulling out a suit that had 'I'm the boss' written all over it.

She silently wished House sweet dreams and went to the kitchen, determined to get of the meetings early enough to call him before his soaps came on.


	5. Chapter 5

The lock snapped back and the front door creaked open.

"Greg?"

House's eyes opened at the sound of his name. He was bundled up on the sofa. The local news had bored him into a stupor. He was too warm under the thick blue blanket and kicked it off. No pain shot up his leg.

"You awake?" Cuddy walked to the sofa and peered over.

"I am now," he muttered blithely, running his hand through his hair and trying to remember what day it was. The whole apartment was hot and stuffy.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Your cheeks are flushed," Cuddy said with a frown. "Do you have a fever?"

"No. It's too damned hot in here. Did you turn the heat up to broil again?"

She turned to the thermostat and began to play with the buttons. "You up for some company?"

"I'm always up for your company. You know that." House answered with a small but devilish grin.

"I'm not talking about me." Cuddy walked over to him and ran her thumb down his cheek. He rewarded her with a big smile.

"Who then? Who did you invite over here?" the diagnostician asked with apprehension. He wasn't really keen on his private space being invaded. "Lisa, I swear if you have a reporter out there waiting to do a fuzzy wuzzy feel-good interview with the brave doctor who survived an attack by a gun-wielding maniac–"

"_Brave_ doctor?" Cuddy arched an eyebrow.

"Well, he shot me before I had to chance to scream like a girl. Therefore I'm brave by default."

She shook her head with exasperation. She did that a lot when she was around House. "Your colleagues would like to see you."

"Is Wilson dying to get his ass kicked at checkers again?"

"Wilson couldn't make it."

"He's too busy flirting with the nurses to come see me? That horny little bastard."

"One of his patients isn't responding well to chemo and he's keeping a close eye on her–"

"Riiigghtt," he snorted. "The perfect cover story."

"I saw her with my own eyes. Your _other_ colleagues are here. You up to seeing them?"

"As long as they don't expect steaks and key lime pie," House replied, wondering if his underlings were really there or if Cuddy was actually going to try to get him to talk to some sleazebag reporter who would twist his words around until the story his shooting ended up being a nice three inch piece of fiction for all of Princeton to read.

He watched Cuddy smirk and pull out her cellphone. She punched a number and spoke, "Come on up." Twenty seconds later there was a knock. The Dean of Medicine opened it to Foreman, Chase and Cameron.

"Oh God...," House moaned with horribly affected misery. "Have I died and everyone is just too polite to tell me?"

"Looks like you're well on your way to a full recovery," Foreman said, leaning on the back of sofa.

"You damn well better believe it," House said curtly, then his attention was caught by Cameron, who was holding a small box. "For me?"

"Chocolate chip cookies," she answered, passing him the gift.

"Homemade?"

"The kind you buy and break off into perfect little pieces for baking."

"Close enough," he mumbled, then began to fumble with the lid. "What about you, Chase? Did you bring me a puppy?" He wolfed down a cookie in two bites and reached for a second.

"Maybe next time," the Australian answered, and leaned into the sofa in a copy of Foreman's pose.

"Once again, your sincerity overwhelms me."

"So what else is new?" Cuddy sighed and stalked off to the kitchen.

Chase smirked. "I'm nothing if not sincere. Anything to help you with a speedy recovery." He reached for a cookie only to have his hand less-than-subtley smacked away.

"Mine!" House growled and protectively shielded the box with his arms. "You want some, you go find a random psycho to shoot you for no reason. I'm sure Cameron here would be _delighted_ to bake you up a batch."

"Hopefully it won't come to that." The immunologist blanched at the thought.

"Me neither," House told her with a mouthful of cookie. Chocolate smudged the corners of his mouth. "I had to take you to dinner to get you to come back. Of course, you had just simply quit. If Chase gets shot, imagine what I'll have to do to get him to come back."

"I'd rather not," Foreman remarked dryly.

"Oh yuck..." Cameron said.

Cuddy stood in the kitchen doorway. "What did you just say?"

"Oh man, I'm going to have nightmares tonight," Chase groaned and buried his head in his hands.

House brushed the crumbs off his chest. "Me too. Just when I thought my insomnia days were over. Damn."


	6. Chapter 6

"Did they come here because they were just dying to see l'il ole me or did you drag them here under threat of more clinic duty?" House had asked after his visitors left.

"They stopped me on my way out and asked how you were doing," Cuddy told him, and it was the truth. "They wanted to see you and I made it clear that if you were up to it, they could stop in for a while and say hello."

"They did more than say hello. They were here for nearly an hour."

"You could have told me that you weren't feeling well and have them come back tomorrow."

"Then Cameron wouldn't have given me these yummy cookies." Cuddy reached for one and House pulled the box away. "Mine!"

In the aftermath of his underlings visit and gorging himself silly on chocolate chip cookies, House slowly but surely dozed off again with his head in Cuddy's lap. The big blue blanket was tossed haphazardly over him, his long legs were indeterminate lumps under the thick fabric. Cuddy surreptitiously munched on a cookie while absently stroking his chin and neck with her crimson nails. He sighed in his sleep and turned over on his right side. Nothing seemed to be disturbing him. How long would that last?

* * *

"More visitors?" House scowled. "When did my apartment become Grand Central Station?" 

"They came a long way to see you." Cuddy said pointedly, folding her arms and tapping her foot.

"Did you call my parents behind my back?"

"No. They're your friends and they want to wish you well."

"For crying out loud, I haven't shaved in two weeks, I'm dressed like a hobo, and now someone seems to have installed a revolving door without my permission."

"Do you want me to send them away?"

"That depends. Do they have cookies?"

"Flowers and box of candy."

"Yum. More free goodies. Send them in, boss."

As Cuddy went out to fetch her mystery guests, House took the few seconds to ponder who was waiting outside. It wasn't Wilson, he was still busy with his patient; plus he lived in town and wouldn't have come 'a long way'.

"Dr. House?" A familiar face with gleaming capped teeth smiled at him and handed over a bouquet of sweet smelling daisies and lilies. "How are you feeling?"

"Just fine, Detective," he replied with more than a little surprise. "You came all this way just to see me? Are you sure you don't want an MRI, Bobby? I'm sure Dr. Cuddy here would be more than happy to fit you in."

"Can we get a two-for-one deal?" Detective Eames asked as she walked around the sofa.

"Anything for you, Alex," the diagnostician answered.

"How about a three-for-one?" a strange voice piped up. The owner of the voice came up behind Goren. He was a little older, around six feet tall, dark hair with graying temples. He had 'cop' written all over him.

"I've got an apartment full of cops," House smirked. "This usually isn't a good sign."

Goren stepped aside to allow the stranger to step up and offer his hand. "Dr. Gregory House, I'd like you to meet Detective Michael Logan."

"It's nice to finally meet you," Logan said as House shook his hand. "I wish the circumstances could have been better."

"They could have been worse," House replied coolly. "_Finally_ meet me, you say? Hmm...does this mean a certain pair of detectives have been telling tall tales about me?"

Eames snickered. "Guilty as charged."

House eyed the older detective. "You know all about the shooting."

"Of course. Cuddy, er...Lisa has been keeping us up to date," Goren spoke up, "letting us know how you've been doing. And we've told Logan all about the eccentric doctor in New Jersey. When he found out Eames and I were coming out here, he insisted on tagging along."

"Any of you happen to see the shooter?" the doctor asked, almost serious.

"Not in our jurisdiction," Goren answered with a trace of disappointment.

House could picture Goren memorizing the police sketch and scanning the crowded streets of NYC for the forty-something bald guy who just decided to shoot a doctor one day. "You're even crazier than Bobby," he told Logan. "Traveling 50 miles to meet a gimp doctor."

Logan chuckled. "You're supposed to be brilliant and a major pain in the ass."

"Is that a crime?" the doctor asked.

"If it was, everyone in this room would be locked up," Logan answered.

Cuddy walked over and sat down by her lover. "And you would be on death row."

"Here," Eames held out a box of candy for House. "From the finest shop in New York City."

"Godiva?" House looked at the box. It wasn't gold.

"Those leave Godiva in the dust," Goren said in all seriousness.

"Really?" Cuddy reached for a piece to see if the detectives were telling the truth.

"Mine!" House held the box out of her reach.


	7. Chapter 7

Wilson often used House's apartment as a refuge when things weren't going well at his own home. Taking cover at his friend's apartment lessened the chances of being hit by a random flying coffee cup thrown by an angry Mrs. Wilson. House finally had to give him a spare key because he got tired of being Wilson's doorman. The oncologist let himself into the apartment after Cuddy told him she couldn't come to the door and he could come in if he promised to be quiet.

"How is he doing?" Wilson asked softly as he locked the door behind him. A faint snoring came from the sofa. Then he looked over and saw the reason why Cuddy couldn't get up.

House had built himself a cozy little nest at one end of the sofa with every pillow within a ten block radius. They were stacked three high, the diagnostician was smooshed against them, sitting lengthwise with his legs across Cuddy's lap. A light green blanket was draped across both of them. House's head was tilted back, his arms were folded across his stomach, and he was out cold.

"He's doing all right, all things considered," Cuddy answered, keeping her voice low, affectionately patting her lover's leg. "It won't be too long before he can go back to work. Look out patients, Dr. House is coming back with a vengeance."

"Is he still walking around without his cane?"

"Yes. No limp, either."

"That's good news. Since when did he sleep before 3am? Did you drug him?" Wilson sounded half-way serious as he walked to the easy chair and settled into it to get a better look at his esteemed colleagues.

"He's been sleeping a lot lately."

"Hypersomnia can be a symptom of depression," Wilson said stonily.

"He has no difficulty waking up and he's not disoriented when he does. There's no pain to disturb him so now he's playing catch-up."

"House is sleeping through the night?" Wilson asked incredulously as he watched Cuddy nod. "No nightmares or anything?"

"Nope, sleeping like a log," she chuckled. "Hmm...it's almost funny. Greg gets shot and I get the nightmares. I'm not sure which one is worse."

"No pain in his leg at all?" The oncologist raised his eyebrows.

"None."

"How do you know that?"

"He told me himself. The gunshot wounds are still bothering him a little, but not his leg."

"What about the Vicodin?"

"What about it?" she frowned.

"Is he still downing those like candy?"

"The bottle hasn't been touched in a week."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "How can you be so sure?"

"There were fifteen pills in that bottle last week," she answered simply, "and there were fifteen in there when I counted them this morning while Greg was in the shower."

"And he's not going ballistic from withdrawal?"

"Staying home all day is starting to drive him ballistic, not the lack of Vicodin."

"Incredible," Wilson muttered under his breath, then shifted his attention to the Dean of Medicine. "How are you doing, Dr. Cuddy?"

She gave the oncologist a tired smile, "I've been better."

"Are you sick?"

"No, but keeping an eye on Greg here can really take it out of a gal."

"How so?"

"If you were to ask him, the whole shooting thing was just a minor inconvenience, like spraining his ankle instead of some maniac walking up to him and pulling the trigger without warning. He could have died and it doesn't bother him in the least."

"In other words," Wilson began, "he's still the same prickly misanthrope he always was. You're disappointed that he didn't see the light or the error of his ways, so to speak."

"Sort of," she sighed. "That maniac is still running around and Greg is like 'oh well, that's life'. I wish he would think before he speaks. Not everyone can tolerate his bluntness like we do. He might end up pissing off the wrong person again, and that person will have better aim."

A groan came from the pile of pillows. "If you two are going to talk about me," House muttered, opening his eyes, "you can at least be polite enough to make sure I'm out of earshot."


	8. Chapter 8

"How long have you been awake?" Cuddy asked House warily, knowing he had probably heard just about everything.

He stretched his legs and answered, "Long enough to hear my tag-team babysitters talk about what they should do with me." He leaned into his pile of pillows and narrowed his eyes at Cuddy. "Let me know if you need any help. I might be able to give you an idea or two."

Wilson said, "We're not telling you how to live your life–"

"That's nice," House interrupted with a low chuckle. "I can't tell you how _exhilarated_ I am to hear that."

"We're worried about you, that's all. We're just looking out for you," the oncologist told his friend.

"By talking behind my back?" the diagnostician grumbled. "That's an interesting approach. If you have something to say to me, then say it. Otherwise both of you can get the hell out."

"Like I said before," Cuddy began, "I wish you would take the shooting more seriously."

"Seriously? How seriously? How seriously will be seriously enough for you? Just what do you want from me, Lisa?"

"I want you to realize, to really see clearly, what happened, what could have happened, and what kind of impact this will make on the rest of your life."

"Oh, believe me, I saw what happened. You two weren't there," House said, pulling the blanket up to his chest. "What could have happened? You two can dwell on it until your heads explode because I'm not going to. As far as the rest of my life goes, I now have a matching pair of bullet wounds, a bloody mess in the conference room, and a couple of self-appointed wanna-be guardian angels who seem to think I should throw myself on the floor and have a panic attack to prove that I learned a lesson or two from this whole _terrifying ordeal_. Well, I'm not in the mood for a panic attack right now so can we schedule it after my soaps tomorrow?"

"You don't have to prove anything," Cuddy said slowly and carefully. "We just need to know that you're going be okay."

"I'm going to be fine, thank you." House drew his knees up to his chest and closed his eyes. "If the two of you want to talk, go talk in the kitchen. I don't feel like talking anymore."

To his friends astonishment, House was asleep again in twenty seconds.

* * *

"You don't have to leave," House said from his mountain of pillows as he watched the local news.

"I have a ton of paperwork to catch up on tomorrow," Cuddy explained, opening the close and reaching for her coat.

"That never stopped you before. Now why don't you tell me the real reason you want to leave?"

She paused just before she closed the closet door. "What real reason?"

"You're mad at me for being a smart-ass earlier this evening, and you think I'm mad at you for catching you and Wilson having your little discussion."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you sorry you talked behind my back or are you sorry you got caught?"

"Both. Are you mad at me, Greg?"

"I was, but I'm not anymore. Are you mad at me?"

"Yes, a little," she answered, walking over and leaning on the back of the sofa, leaving her coat in the closet. "Serious events are meant to be taken seriously. Not everything can be turned into a running joke."

"I never said it could," he said flatly.

"You keep acting like it."

"I'm not acting like it now. I'm too tired to joke about seriously serious things with you at the moment."

"But why do you keep acting like it?"

"It's either laugh or cry. If I turn into a weeping nervous wreck that means Mr. Mad Gunman got the better of me. I don't want that and neither do you."

"You can shed a tear or two in front of me. I won't think any less of you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I hope you will. I really do."

"I really will," he said with complete sincerity. "Now what do I have to do to convince you to stay tonight?"

"What are you offering?"

"My nice big warm bed. As an added bonus, I'll include me to snuggle with."

"Been there, done that."

"Yes, you have. But tell me, do you have me and nice big warm bed waiting for you at your place? Or is it just the usual pint of Double Chocolate Chunk and a cold shower?"

"Why should I trade Double Chocolate Chunk for you?"

"I won't leave you with a sugar crash." He smiled up at her.

"True, but I need more than that."

"You can't snuggle all by your lonesome. This is a limited time offer, Lisa. Act now. Operators are standing by."

"Add one more bonus and I'll call the toll free number."

"What is it?" House asked, curious.

"You make me breakfast."

"If you don't mind something quick and easy. I still get lightheaded when I stand up too long."

"Don't bother. I don't want you to overdo it. I'll make us breakfast."

"Hmm..looks like _I_ got the added bonus," he said with his Cheshire cat grin. "I'll take it any way I can get it."


	9. Chapter 9

"Do you have anything edible in here?" Cuddy asked, digging through the fridge. Various unidentifiable packages littered the shelves. A crusty bottle of ketchup fell over. Only a pint or two of milk was left.

"I dunno," House answered languidly as he watched her from the table. Watching her move around the kitchen had become one of his favorite hobbies. "You practically live here now, you should know when I'm low on food."

She looked at some unknown substance wrapped in foil and made a face. "You're low on food." Whatever the substance was, it didn't matter anymore. It was tossed into the garbage without a blink.

"Thanks for the reminder. A few things have sidetracked me lately and I haven't been able to get to the store. And I get the feeling that our definitions of edible are two different things."

"Don't you ever buy anything besides scotch, peanut butter, chicken noodle soup and Cheerios? It wouldn't kill you to cook a decent meal a few nights a week. You've lost some weight. You need to put some meat back on your bones."

"I don't cook. I reheat. Not every night calls for steaks and key lime pie."

"Don't you crave real food every now and then?"

"That's what take-out places and vending machines were created for."

"You'd starve to death without them. They don't count since corn chips and french fries aren't real food,"she said with some weariness, opening a carton of eggs. "How long have these been here?"

"No chicks have hatched yet," he said in his fake 'helpful' voice, "so my guess is not long enough."

"Well, I guess we'll find out," she said and put them on the counter. "I'll have some groceries delivered here today and cook you a nice filling meal tonight. How does that sound?"

"Breakfast _and _dinner?" He flashed a thousand watt smile. "Why, Lisa, what have I done to earn such royal treatment?

"You know exactly why." She smiled over her shoulder at him. "The fact that you're up and walking around is enough cause for a celebration."

"Does that mean more five hundred dollar champagne?" he asked hopefully.

"Not right now," Cuddy answered. She dug the frying pan out and greased it. "Getting _inebriated_ on diamond-studded fizz isn't going to help your recovery. Let's save the champagne for when you get back to work."

"You're no fun," House scowled.

"So sue me." The eggs went into the pan and grease began to splatter. Four slices of bread went into a toaster that dated from the _Dirty Dancing _era. "Oh, and I couldn't help myself last night and ate the rest your chocolates while you were sleeping on the couch."

"_Hmph_," House snorted, though he seemed strangely disinterested. "You've been hanging around me too long."

"How's that?"

"You're becoming _shameless_."

"I learned from the best in the business." She flipped the eggs and walked over to House, playfully tousling his hair. "How are you doing today?"

"I'm just fine, as you can very well see."

"And your leg?"

"It's still here," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Any pain?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Any Vicodin?"

"There's still fifteen pills in the bottle," the tall doctor answered nonchalantly. "You can count them if you want."

"I will," she said and meant it.

"Be my guest." He looked over her shoulder. "Don't burn the eggs."

"Oh no!" She hurried over to the stove and dumped the eggs on their respective plates. "Well, Dr. House," Cuddy continued while buttering the toast, "judging by your extraordinary recovery, you should be back to work soon."

"Define 'soon'," House asked warily.

"I'd say maybe two weeks. Maybe three at the most."

"You're awfully optimistic," he mused. "Does work include clinic duty?"

"If you're well enough to cure some exotic disease, you're well enough to do a couple of hours of clinic duty."

"I feel a cold coming on." House coughed into his hand and sniffled.

"Unless your insides are turning into mush from the Ebola virus, you're doing some clinic duty," she informed him stolidly, putting their breakfast on the table.

"That's appetizing," he muttered as she got out the orange juice. "Nothing like visions of people's eyeballs melting to get my strength back."

"Okay, unless you're saving the local orphanage from being closed the by the greedy developer, there's not excuse. Is that better?"

"Don't forget to throw in a few puppies and kitties."

"Not even _you_ can resist a cute fluffy kitty," Cuddy said pleasantly. "Eat up. You can't put off clinic duty forever."

"Watch me," House smirked and piled his eggs on the toast.


	10. Chapter 10

House wanted to take a nap. Sleeping undisturbed so many nights in a row had definitely grown on him. Late morning and afternoon naps had become a part of his daily routine since coming home. But he had to wait for the delivery kid coming with his groceries. He wanted a salty snack and hoped there would be a surprise or two in the delivery car.

He relaxed on the sofa, watching some mindless morning talk shows featuring C-List starlets plugging their latest lousy movies while showing off their new saline bags. Sometimes when the pain in his leg was a notch or two above normal he would use television or music as a distraction. At that moment the television was on just for some noise. His leg didn't hurt. It hadn't hurt for several weeks.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

Maybe not. House didn't believe in miracles. Never had and never will. Miracles were for yahoos who couldn't face the cold hard fact that sometimes things just _happened_ and there was no divine hand at work. He wanted to think that he was just plain lucky and couldn't make himself believe that either. Good luck was a poor man's miracle. It was science and medicine, that was all. So far the ketamine was doing a grand job, but the cynical son-of-a-bitch that he still was knew anything this good was too good to last.

After all the endless hours, days, months, years of wishing for something, _anything_ to free him of the burden of his right leg, it had happened. His anger and frustration had been channeled into the snarky abrasive bastard with the cane, the guy who would insult you just as soon look at you. The Vicodin numbed the pain in his leg and the pain within himself, the never-ending torment of the loneliness, misery, resentment that he kept bottled up, and fear that one day he was going to lose control. That was the last thing in world he wanted, but like the fate of his leg, House feared that something was going to happen, something bad, and there wasn't a damn thing he could to stop it. The wheels had been set in motion, and all he could do was sit back and enjoy the ride while it lasted because the destination was going to be a guided tour of his own personal purgatory.

Still, if he had to do it all over again, he wouldn't change a thing, even if the relief was only temporary thing. Except for getting shot. He could live without going through that again.

The groceries arrived and not a moment too soon. Cuddy, in all her over-achieving glory, had enough food sent over for an Osmond family reunion. The delivery kid had to bring a friend to help. In the boxes, House spotted the usual staples of milk, cheese, cereal, eggs and bread along with chicken, ground beef, waffles, a few frozen dinners, a million canned goods, pasta, apples, pizza, soda, ice cream, chips and a quart of soy milk that was definitely not for him. Plenty of goodies to last a long while. House tipped the kids an extra twenty each to get them to put the stuff away.

He flopped back on the sofa with chips and soda and munched away while watching his soaps, his good mood returning. The afternoon nap he promised himself never arrived. That was fine. He'd just sleep in tomorrow.

* * *

Cuddy had barely put the plate of burritos piled high with cheese and sour cream in front of House before he attacked. If a stranger or two happened to stumble upon the scene, they might mistake House for a man who had spent the last ten years in a Russian gulag and was enjoying his first meal that didn't consist of three-day old oatmeal. She pulled her hand back with lightning speed, fearing she would lose it in the one-man feeding frenzy that was happening in front of her eyes. 

"I take it those meet with your approval," she drolled, turning back to the stove.

"Oh _yeah_," he replied with an enthusiasm that was quickly approaching manic glee. "These fucking _rock_. How come you never made them before?"

"Good question," she said, flipping her burrito over in the pan. "I just never did. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll be making them again real soon."

"Tomorrow?" Sour cream was smeared all over his mouth, making him look like a rabid dog.

His boss set her burrito on a plate and turned around. "Are you serious?"

"Aren't I always?" he asked innocently, wiping off the extra condiments covering his mouth and chin.

"I'm not going to answer that," she said and began to grate some cheese. "Don't you want something different? I got you some ground beef. I can make some hamburgers and baked potatoes."

"Peasant food. This stuff right here is a meal fit for royalty." He tapped his fork on the plate for emphasis.

"Oh," Cuddy deadpanned. "I didn't realize that."

"You do now."

"If for some strange reason you are being one hundred percent serious, I'll make them again tomorrow. Do you want burritos for dinner tomorrow, Greg?"

"Yes, boss. These are absolutely fucking delicious." He was telling the truth. His dinner was already half gone.

"Well then, who am I to resist a charming statement like that?" Cuddy joined him at the table with her own plate of food and a glass of soy milk. "I'll even make you an extra one if you want."

"Please do. You're the best fucking boss in the whole wide world. Have I ever told you that?" he asked, looking expectantly at her for an answer.

She paused with a fork dripping with refried beans and sour cream halfway to her mouth. "Um...no," Cuddy answered after pondering that out-of-blue statement for a few seconds. "No, I don't think you have."

"Well, just in case I haven't, I'm telling you now." She didn't know if he was grinning at his own whacked-out sense of humor or the look of confusion on her face. Probably both. "You, Lisa Cuddy, are the best fucking boss a guy like me could ever ask for."

"Um...okay, Greg." She hid her smile and school-girl blush behind her glass of soy milk. "Thank you."

"You are more than welcome. Now hurry up and eat your dinner before I do."


	11. Chapter 11

The days began to blur into one another and soon the lazy days of watching soaps and infomercials began to lose their appeal. His brain was turning into mush. Almost nothing could hold his attention, except for Cuddy and her near daily visits. House ate the meals she prepared, listened to her relay messages from his team and Wilson, talked about his healing process–which she was more than pleased with–and fell asleep tangled in her limbs, the scent of her lavender and vanilla body wash wafting all around the room. But Cuddy could only distract him from the inevitable for so long. The inevitable had finally arrived. He had plowed into the brick wall of boredom at full speed and was ready to scream.

As the walls closed in, he glanced at a window and noticed the bright sunshine streaming in. It was a perfectly nice day and he was wasting away inside his increasingly stuffy apartment. When was the last time he felt the sun on his face? He couldn't remember. When had he last left his apartment? He couldn't remember that either. A brief change of scenery, even if that meant just a stroll around the block, might help clear the cobwebs from his brain. House changed into jeans and a tee-shirt, laced up his sneakers, put his cellphone in his pocket in case his favorite babysitter decided to check up, and ventured outside.

The cane was stuffed in a golf bag in the back of his closet. It never occurred to him that he might need it.

He paused on the front stoop, not sure which direction to take. To the right was all downhill, and he wasn't ready for the challenge of walking back up the hill to get home, not yet. That would put him right back in the hospital. He turned left where the streets smoothed out and just walked, going no place in particular, enjoying the fresh air and the sound of chirping birds. Even the passing, noisy cars and trucks were a welcome sight. The sun beat down and soon his sweat began to soak through his shirt. It felt so good just to move again, not feel the sharp pain that accompanied every step of his right leg, that he didn't care about the dripping sweat or the rising afternoon temperature. After about half a mile his muscles began to protest. They were going to make him pay for it tomorrow, but he kept walking. A convenient store was just a few blocks away. He'd get there, buy a snack and turn around.

His cellphone chirped. Cuddy, right on cue. His favorite babysitter in the whole wide world.

"Afternoon, boss," he answered with a grin.

"How's everything going?" Cuddy asked, the undercurrent of apprehension in her voice had been replaced with a self-assured tone when it became obvious that the ketamine treatment was a tremendous help. "You enjoying your soaps?"

"Not at the moment. I'll watch them later." He paused under the shade of an enormous tree and watched a squirrel twist through the branches.

"You're missing your soaps _on purpose_?" she gasped. "Are you all right?"

"Of course."

A big dump truck rumbled past, spewing exhaust all over the otherwise lovely afternoon. House coughed and swore under his breath. His eyes stung. He could barely hear his boss.

"What on earth was that noise?" she was saying. "Greg, are you there?"

He scowled after the truck and replied, "That was a major cause of global warming."

"What?"

"It was a big-ass dump truck."

"What's a dump truck doing in your living room? Did they move the highway?"

"It's not in my living room and neither am I," House answered with a smile that nearly split his face wide open.

"Oh." Her puzzlement carried through the crackling connection. "Where are you?"

"Outside, taking a walk."

"Wait, did I...did I hear you right?" Cuddy stuttered. "Did you just say you were outside..._walking_?"

"I was going to say that I'm competing in the Ironman Triathlon, but you wouldn't believe _that_."

"Do you have the cane with you?"

"Nope."

"That's _great_!" she gushed with pure unadulterated rapture. Any lingering fears she had of the shooter coming back to get him were put aside for the moment. "Greg, that is wonderful news!"

"Yeah, I figured you'd get a kick out of it."

"Is your leg okay? It's not hurting, is it?" she asked as her elation went down a notch. "Don't push yourself too hard, Greg, please–"

"My leg is fine," he assured her, and himself. "It's just a simple walk. I'm getting ready to turn around and go home. This is enough for today."

"I'll be over as soon as I can. We're definitely going to celebrate your progress tonight."

"Not too hard, Lisa," he chuckled. "We wouldn't want an unexpected setback."

"No, no we wouldn't. Okay, Greg, I have to go. I'll see you later."

"Later, boss." He clicked the phone off with a twinge of regret that their conversation couldn't last a bit longer.

He stopped in the convenient store and bought a candy bar and cherry slushy. He had walked too far and was going to regret it. Hopefully he could celebrate with Cuddy before the regret kicked in.

Halfway home his right leg cramped. He paused and rubbed the thigh, feeling the concave shape through his jeans. The cramp eased. _Just pushed a little too hard_, _that's all_, he thought and continued on his way home, the thought fading as quickly as it arrived.


	12. Chapter 12

He took his time walking back home. There was no need to hurry, and the slower pace was easier on his legs. There were no patients to think about, no exotic diseases to diagnose, no angry messages from Cuddy about how another soccer mom bitched about his behavior. His only annoyance was having to switch the slushy from hand to hand because it froze his fingers.

He did miss having a mystery to solve. He liked that part of his job if nothing else. But he wasn't about to tell Cuddy that. She'd drag him back to work before he was ready. He wasn't ready, not yet. The mysteries could wait another week or two. Right now he just wanted to get used to walking without the damned cane. It was something he could get used to. Something he had been waiting for, waiting a long long time.

Back inside his apartment, House felt tired, sweaty and elated. It had been years since he had been able to take a simple walk up the street just for the sheer enjoyment of it. Since the infarction, walks had been reduced to simply getting him from one place to another or endless circles trying to relieve the pain in his leg. But now...now that door was open again and he intended to go through it, not caring what was on the other side.

The bright sunlight had given him a headache. He washed down some aspirin with the last of his slushy, drinking it too fast and giving himself a brain freeze. Cursing under his breath, he tossed the cup into the garbage, then chuckled. A brain freeze. It had been a long time since he had one of those. Then he remembered why he didn't gulp down frozen drinks like water.

He decided to take another walk tomorrow if he felt up to it and if the weather cooperated. The lack of exercise over the last few weeks didn't quite gel with the sudden onslaught of exercise and his calf muscles were knotted in protest. He flopped on the bed, still in his sweaty clothes and sneakers, intending to rest a bit before showering and changing into something clean before Cuddy arrived. It took all of five seconds to realize that laying down was a huge mistake and he wasn't getting up again anytime soon.

_I need a shower. I need some coffee._

His eyelids drooped, and his mind felt like a snowy television screen. The bedroom began to drift away.

A short bolt of pain shot through his right leg, then faded.

_It's from the walk. My leg is fine. I'm going to be fine. I'm going to be just fine, _the doctor thought as he fell asleep.

* * *

"You really were out walking today," Cuddy said, smiling down at him from the edge of the bed. 

"Are you calling me a liar?" he muttered, rubbing the sleepiness from his eyes. His leg muscles were tight. He was going to be sore in the morning, and he scowled at the thought. At least it was the good kind of sore, the kind that let him know he had done something good to his body for a change.

"You can't sit there and tell me that you've never lied to me. Then you would be lying and, yes, I would be calling you a liar."

"What the hell are you babbling about?" House was still groggy and furrowed his brow in confusion. "Would you mind repeating that in English?"

"You've lied to me before, Greg, but you're not lying now." She looked him over, noting the sneakers still on his feet. "What brought this on?"

"What brought what on? English, please."

"Why the sudden urge to go outside?"

"I felt like it."

"Why now?"

"Why not?"

Cuddy sighed and rolled her eyes. He wasn't going to give her a straight answer because he probably didn't have one. _I felt like it_ and _why not?_ would have to do for now. That was House being deep and philosophical. An hour with House would make Plato's brain melt and send Nietzche swan-diving off the nearest overpass. "Did you enjoy your walk?" she inquired, trying to get a fix on his state of mind. His mood had been pretty good over the last few weeks, but she didn't want him anywhere near a patient until she was sure he was damn good and ready, and not one second sooner.

"Yes, I did. Thank you for asking," he answered, sitting up with a knowing grin.

"You're quite welcome. And your leg?"

"My leg is fine."

"Are you lying?" she asked and deliberately looked at the Vicodin bottle on the night table.

"No." He followed her gaze and his eyes turned frosty. "Shall I count them out here for you?" the diagnostician asked his boss stonily, feeling irritated at her less-than-subtle gesture. He wished she wouldn't ask him about the damn pills every other time she was over. That was starting to get old.

"I don't know. Should you?"

"I'm not going to, but knock yourself out." He leaned over, picked up the bottle and tossed it into her lap. "I believe you said there were fifteen pills left."

"Yes, I did," Cuddy said, matching his stony tone of voice. "Do either of us need to count these?"

"No."

"Are you telling me the truth?" She popped the lid and shook the pills around in the plastic container, the rattle was familiar yet strange. Neither had heard it in quite some time. Hearing it brought back more than a few memories to House, memories of desperately searching for his stash, needing that last pill to get through another pain-wracked night, needing that first pill to be able to get out of bed. He was surprised to find he didn't miss the sound. Well, maybe a little.

"There's fifteen pills, Lisa. Fifteen. You don't have to count them."

"All right." She reached over and set the bottle back down next to the alarm clock. "That's all I wanted to know."


	13. Chapter 13

Another sleepless night for her, another night of sleeping like the dead for him. Cuddy stared at the clock and watched the minutes drag by while House quietly snored into her shoulder.

He was out walking around. His leg was feeling better. That was great news and she wouldn't dare say otherwise. But did that mean House himself was on the mend? Was fixing his leg going to fix all problems with House's psyche? He had had more than a few quirks and issues long before the infarction and the shooting. Ketamine couldn't make those magically disappear.

She had counted the pills again after he fell asleep and there were still fifteen. Of course, that didn't really mean anything. House could be a clever, sneaky bastard when he wanted to be. There could be a dozen stashes hidden around the apartment. Yet she had spent hours upon hours with him and hadn't caught him trying to sneak a pill. Either he was being very very clever about it or he wasn't taking them, and she couldn't see any reason for him to hide his pill addiction now when he had been so brazen about it before.

Okay, he wasn't taking any Vicodin. For now. How long would the honeymoon period last and the cravings could no longer be ignored?

House grunted and turned over, mumbling an unintelligible string of nonsensical syllables and the occasional real word before settling back into low snoring. Feeling cold without the cover of his body heat, Cuddy pulled up the blankets, then gave up and pressed herself against his back until she felt close enough to be a second skin.

She wondered if the ketamine treatment, and getting his hopes up, had just made things worse.

It was like they were standing on a trap door, neither of them knowing when it was going to fall open and they would drop down into an endless nothing.

* * *

"Are you chicken?" House asked with his patented smug grin. "Damn British blokes. We kick your ass time and time again, yet you always come back for more." 

"For the last time, I'm not British!" Chase gaped with mock horror.

"Why is the Queen on your money? Because you dig frumpy chicks? Queen Victoria was Empress of India and she never set foot in the place."

"So? What does that have to do with me?"

"Does Elizabeth stop by to say howdy and have some tea and scones with the kangaroos?"

"I'm not British and I'm not a chicken."

"So you're an Australian turkey vulture. You gonna play or what?"

The blond doctor looked over at Cuddy with pleading eyes, an odd mix of defeated resignation and _I should have known this would happen_. He had stopped by only to see how House was doing and intended to stay only for a few minutes. The older doctor was disappointed that Chase didn't have any cookies and dragged him into the kitchen. For a few seconds Chase thought he was going to have to whip up a batch of cookies right then and there until he saw House bring out the battered dusty box.

Cuddy gave the Australian no mercy. "Just humor him," she said. "Life will be a lot easier for all of us."

"I haven't played checkers since I was a kid," Chase said, as he watched House open the box and lift out the board. He noted his boss' exceptionally good mood and hoped it would carry over the next ten years or so. He hadn't seen House that jubilant since Foreman's four-week tenure as Head of Diagnostics expired.

"It's like riding a bike," House told him, handing over the black checkers. "Once you learn, you never forget."

"Uh...sure." Chase sighed, knowing he was trapped for a little while. "Could I possibly get a drink?"

"Just plain old liquid or something with alcohol in it?" House asked, arranging his red checkers without looking up.

"What kind of alcohol do you have?"

"There's a beer or two in the fridge, plus there's some scotch and brandy."

Chase perked up. "I'd love a glass of scotch."

"You're getting one glass," Cuddy said pointedly. "I don't need my doctors driving around drunk." She gave House an equally pointed glance as she got up and went to the liquor cabinet. "You're getting only glass, too. Getting falling-down drunk isn't going to help you or your leg."

"Killjoy," the older doctor muttered just loud enough for her to catch.

She set down the glasses and scotch, letting them pour their own drinks, then settled back to watch House make mincemeat of his underling. She watched House smile and enjoy himself, free from the vice that had gripped his leg, drinking it all in and committing it to memory, because she knew it was all too good to last.


	14. Chapter 14

"Why does everyone feel the need to ask about my leg _every single time_ they see me?" House griped as he and Wilson walked up the street under a partly cloudy sky, the smell of the morning rain still clinging to the air. It was the same route House had walked before. He was in the mood for another slushy, and since Wilson was buying he was going to indulge in 44 ounce cherry slush bucket even if it froze him to death. "Unless my leg suddenly swells up to three times its original size, there's no need to ask if it's any different from when it was half an hour ago."

"I was just being polite," Wilson said. It was his day off and he decided to spend part of it with his friend. He had arrived at 221B earlier that morning and found House nearly going berserk with cabin fever. The rain had literally wash out House's plans for a nice morning walk and he had nearly worn a path into the floor with his relentless circling of the living room. Wilson managed to distract the older doctor with a game of double solitaire until the sun finally broke through and House practically dragged Wilson by his hair outside. This was the first chance he had to really get a good long look at his friend without his cane. It was strange to see him without it, walking with his own two legs. No need for support. No limp. No pain.

"Save it for your patients," House said. "When you and Lisa ask about my leg every hour on the hour, that's not polite, that's downright _sadistic_."

"So you're saying that concern equals sadism?"

"I'm saying that there's a fine line between being concerned and being concerned to the point of being sadistic, and the two of you have taken a giant flying leap over it. I'm getting just a little bit tired of answering the same questions over and over again every day. I'm fine and my leg is fine. Unless I start melting in front of your very eyes, you don't have to ask me how I'm doing or how my leg is."

"Fine," Wilson huffed. "You're leg is just magnificent. Nothing on this planet can compare to it and nobody can say otherwise unless it happens to break off in front of a dozen witnesses. Now you can stop bitching about me and Cuddy and our smothering concern and enjoy the rest of the day."

"I don't need anyone's permission for _that_," House said.

"I wasn't giving you any."

"Good. Case closed. Can we move on?"

"Please," the oncologist almost pleaded. "How far is this convenient store?"

"About half a mile or so from my apartment."

"How far is it from where we are now?"

"It's a few more blocks."

"How far is few blocks?"

"A few blocks," House grumbled, getting irate all over again. "What, do you want longitude and latitude?"

"No, thank you anyway," Wilson answered, unfailing polite just to get under his friend's skin even more, let House know he wasn't the only one who could push people's buttons.

"_Hmph_. Keep it up and you'll be buying me a bag of chips and an ice cream cone too."

"You shouldn't eat so much junk food. You'll spoil your dinner."

Wilson couldn't help but smile when he heard a low chuckle drift across the breeze, and they continued down the road. They were about two blocks from the store when, from the corner of his eye, the oncologist saw his friend seemingly trip over his own feet.

"What's wrong?" Wilson felt a bolt of dread shoot through his heart as he watched his friend rub his leg. _The ketamine isn't working, the pain is coming back, oh no..._

"Nothing," House replied. "I just landed on my foot wrong, that's all."

"Why are you rubbing your thigh?"

"I'm _not_. Unless you have managed to hide your blindness over the last few years, I used to have a cane. I just need to get used to walking without it."

"Is that all? Really?" Wilson sounded unconvinced. "Is your leg starting to hurt again?"

"No! Nothing's wrong." House began to walk again, making a show of it. "See? Do I have to start jogging to convince you? I told you not to ask about my leg again. You now officially owe me a bag of chips."

"Fabulous." The oncologist watched his friend carefully until House gave him a look that could take the rust off a skid row car.

"Cheddar Cheese and Sour Cream. The biggest bag they have. Sour Cream and Onion if they don't have the other kind."

"No problem. It's never a problem when I'm paying."

"Such a good friend," House muttered under his breath as they approached the store entrance. "I bet you can't drink a whole 44 ounce grape slushy."

Wilson made a face. "Why would I want to?"

"Because I said you can't."

"Right. Now tell me the real reason."

"Because if you get a brain freeze or two, maybe you won't remember to go running to Lisa about my little stumble back there."


	15. Chapter 15

"Wilson told me he saw you stumble today," Cuddy said, after a big, filling dinner relaxed House. More burritos. His new favorite. She had deliberated waited until after he was full to talk about what Wilson had told her. His favorite meals usually left him in good mood, and hopefully that would keep his crankiness at bay.

He scowled at her and gulped down the rest of his milk. It was no surprise that Wilson had blabbed the first chance he got. The surprise came when Cuddy mentioned it barely three hours after Wilson had left. House had counted on her analyzing it from every conceivable angle over the next few days before nagging him to death about it. He had visions of her filling out a notepad with questions to ask him, scratching some out, writing down new ones as fast as they entered her mind and traveled to her left hand. Now they were going have a little "talk" instead of taking in the new episode of _American Justice_.

"So? Is that supposed to be significant or something?"

"Did you stumble?"

"Maybe. Since when does a simple stumble on the sidewalk constitute an emergency?" he asked without an ounce of sincerity.

"Since it means your leg might be bothering you again," she replied curtly, letting him know that she meant business. "He said you were rubbing your right thigh."

"Your snitch is mistaken."

"Wilson is a good doctor, my friend, and yours." She gathered up the dishes and stacked them in the sink. "That has nothing to do with being a snitch. He worries about you, you know."

"He should pay more attention to his wives. Maybe then the next one will actually stick around for a while."

"That was completely uncalled for, Greg."

"Probably not, but that doesn't mean it isn't true."

"For Pete's sake–"

"Answer me this, Lisa," House began with that thin smart-ass smirk Cuddy knew all too well. It had been a while since she'd seen it, and knew it could only mean trouble when it decided to rear its ugly head again. "Is he under orders to run and tattle to Mommy or did he do it just for the hell of it?"

"He's not a snitch or a tattletale," she said with a frustrated sigh, turning back to the sink to rinse off the plates. "He's a friend who cares and is concerned about you."

"Then I'll tell you what I told him today. I'm fine, my leg is fine, end of story. Until I say otherwise, there is no need to ask me about it fifty times a day."

"Why did you stumble?"

"Are you referring to stumbling while out on my walk today, and it wasn't a stumble by the way, or stumbling onto this stupefying conversation?"

"Your walk."

"For the last time, for the _very _last time, I didn't stumble. I just landed on my foot wrong."

"Just from _walking_?"

A loud thunk from behind almost made her drop the plate she had been rinsing. House had slammed a fist down on the table, his patience at its end. So much for his good mood, and hers. "I haven't been able to set my full weight on my right leg for nearly _nine fucking years_ now, so yeah, I think I'm entitled to land on it wrong or stumble or whatever the hell you want to call it every now and then."

"If you just tripped then–"

"And I think I'm entitled to have a little time to get used to having two legs instead of three–"

"But what–"

"_And_ while you're at it, tell me the answer you're looking for so I can say it. Wait, nevermind, since it won't do any good. I doubt you even know. Last but not least I think I'm entitled to enjoy it without having you and our dear angelic friend Wilson questioning my every little stumble. Can the two of you handle that or do I have to get the cane back out and limp around to make you be quiet about my leg?"

"No, you don't," she answered, folding her arms and leaning back against the sink. "Wilson and I just want you to know that if you're leg is bothering you, now or later, please let us know."

"It's going to bother me again? Is that what you're saying?"

"The ketamine isn't a cure. You know that."

"If it was we wouldn't be having this discussion. We'd be watching TV or having red-hot sex."

She brushed his painfully obvious attempt to change the subject, even if it was a good idea. "You know damn good and well that the pain could come back anytime."

"I suppose I do."

"I'm glad you're out walking. I really am."

"Care to take a walk around the block tomorrow?"

"We'll see. You need to exercise that muscle. Keep going."

"I know that too, boss. I don't have any plans to stop."

"Good. Now you damn well better remember that."


	16. Chapter 16

At first Cuddy thought House had lapsed into one of his moody silences. After a closer look, he didn't seem moody so much as reflective, mulling things over. He had finally found what he was looking for and now didn't know what the hell to do with it. Maybe the side of him that was absolutely sure that it would never happened still couldn't wrap its head around the fact. The pain was gone. Now what? For the last nine years his cane and pill habit had nearly overshadowed the brilliant mind that went with them. That could have been his plan all along. Who knows? Who would want to know? Could he give up those things so easily, and was it fair to expect him to?

Plus, there was the other possibility, the very real chance that his new pain free existence could be pulled right out from under him.

* * *

"Guess what I did today." House was looking over the back of the sofa, beaming at her like a kid on Christmas morning. 

Cuddy was barely in the door, and cast a suspicious gaze over at him. It was either big news or big trouble. "You found the cure for cancer," she answered nonchalantly.

"I'm not an oncologist. That's Wilson's job, not mine, remember? Guess again."

"You won the lottery."

"Hmmm...good guess, but wrong. Try again."

"Just tell me–"

"One more guess. C'mon, I know you can do it. You're not the big boss for nothing."

"I didn't get to be the big boss by playing guessing games," she huffed. "You joined the cast of _General Hospital_."

"Better than that."

"Better? Oh no, this can't be good," she teased. "If it's something filthy or disgusting or both, I don't even want to know." Cuddy hung up her coat and joined him on the sofa, feeling right at home with his arm around her shoulder. She cuddled up close and could smell the warm water and soap wafting off him like steam from a cup of hot tea.

"Why Lisa, I'm shocked. You walk into _my_ home and all but accuse me of being a pervert. Well, I _am_ a pervert, but that's beside the point. My point is that I accomplished something today that has nothing to do with being perverted."

"Scout's honor?"

"The Boy Scouts wouldn't let me join. I think they were afraid of me."

"Gee, I wonder why."

"I knew that rumor about the spatula and dead dog would come back to haunt me."

"What rumor?"

"You don't want to know. It's kind of disgusting and perverted."

"Okay, you were never a Boy Scout. Still aren't. That's beside the point, too. What is this wonderful accomplishment you're just bursting at the seams to tell me about? Did you save a little old lady on your walk today?"

House gave her a thousand watt smile. "I didn't notice anyone in peril while I was _jogging_ today."

In a flash, Cuddy was sitting bolt upright with her jaw hanging open like the proverbial idiot. She didn't care. This revelation couldn't bring out any other reaction. "Jogging? You were _jogging_? Are you serious?"

"I'm as serious as serious can be, boss," he answered with enough sincerity to flood the room.

Still in shock, she wasn't entirely convinced. "This better not be a joke, Greg. If this a joke I swear I'm going to drop-kick you out the nearest window."

"No joke. I went jogging today. I haven't been jogging in nearly a decade so I didn't get very far, maybe a third of a mile. But I figured you'd want to hear about it all the same."

"Goddamn right I do," she said with a face-splitting smile. "Whether you jogged five miles or five steps, it's great news." Cuddy leaned in and gave him a big sloppy wet kiss.

"I was in the mood to be showered with praise," he admitted with his Cheshire cat grin. "I figured that would do the trick."

"You deserve it," she said, and punctuated it with a string a feathery kisses along his jaw.

"Oh, I think I deserve something else," he growled salaciously.

"I can handle that. Can you?" She didn't wait for an answer before she started to pull on his tee shirt.

"Actually," he said, grabbing her hands, "I was talking about having some more burritos."

"What?" Cuddy's face collapsed.

"Dinner, please. All that jogging really worked up my appetite. You must be hungry too."

"Not for burritos."

"If I wasn't starving I wouldn't ask."

"All right," she sighed, getting up. "But I get to choose dessert."


	17. Chapter 17

"What is it?" House asked after he caught Cuddy staring at him, her mouth curled in a devilish grin.

"Hmmm?" She feigned surprise and the grin curled up even more. If he was really confused as to what she wanted, he wouldn't be in the next few minutes. "Did you say something?"

"What are you looking at?"

"You," she answered simply as her eyes glittered in the lamp light.

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." The sensuous look on her face sent chills down his spine, the good kind.

"I don't need a picture when the real thing is right here in front of me."

"Can't beat the real thing, huh?"

"Nope."

"I know I'm good looking, but really, you don't have to stare." He made a big show of turning back to the television.

Hardly undeterred, Cuddy scooted over until they were hip to hip. She took the remote out of his hand and set it on the coffee table. House didn't respond, just continued to stare at the TV, though she could see a hint of the smile he tried to hide but failed. Her hand reached up and stroked his chin, his six-day-old beard rasping under her fingertips. Her grin broke into an ear-to-ear smile when he leaned his head into her hand.

"What's on your mind, Lisa?" he asked with insincere innocence, taking her hand and finally managing to tear his attention away from the now boring show that could damn well wait for a rerun.

"Do I really need to tell you?"

"It's better to make sure we're on the same page here," he teased, loving every second of their verbal foreplay, musing over the fact that he taught her well. She could come up with some zingers that put his to shame and then some. "Better to be on the safe side."

"It's time for dessert," she purred, and nibbled at his earlobe.

"I don't have any pie," he responded with a chuckle, running his fingers through her hair.

"I'm not talking about pie. I want some _real_ dessert."

"Why not? Key Lime pie not good enough for you anymore?"

"I don't want _good_. I want _the best_."

"Mmmm...I see. If the boss wants the best then she shall get the best." House barely had time to finish his sentence before Cuddy crushed her mouth on his and all but devoured him. He felt his breath sucked away, her weight forcing him back, her lips tracing his with warm, moist kisses. "_Jesus Christ, Lisa_," he managed to gasp before his words were cut off again. Not that he really cared by that point.

Until a sudden irresistible impulse struck him right then and there.

After she peeled his tee-shirt off, he used the last of his remaining coherence to pant, "Stand up."

"Huh?" She froze, straddled over his hips. "Are you okay?"

"Stand up," he said again, still panting.

Cuddy stared at him, incredulous, and noted his wicked grin. "Why do you always pick the weirdest times to spring your even weirder ideas?"

"If all goes well, it'll be worth it. On your feet, boss."

She stood up and watched him follow her movements with no trouble. His sweatpants hung low on his waist and _damn_ he looked so very very good. _Delicious_ would be an understatement. She bit her lip, then raised an eyebrow in question as he pushed back the coffee table back a few inches.

"What's that for?" she asked.

"Just in case," he answered, looking around at the new found space, apparently satisfied with what he saw. "Don't want you cracking your ankle on it."

"Why would I?"

"You're about to find out," House said, walking back up to her. "Since you and I became a couple, there's been one simple little thing that I have always wanted to do but have been unable to do it. Now that circumstances have changed, lets see if my little wish can come true."

Cuddy tilted her head at him. "How does that involve me?"

"You'll see. Just a fair warning, if you should suddenly find yourself falling, pretend you're a cat and try to land on your feet."

"What–"

"Here goes nothing." House leaned in and to her utter and complete amazement, scooped her off the floor and into his arms in one extraordinarily fast non-stop motion.

"Oh my God!" Cuddy gulped, clinging to his neck for dear life, waiting for his leg to buckle, sending them both crashing to the ground. Five seconds passed, then ten. Cuddy closed her eyes and remembered to try and land on her feet. Nothing happened. The room remained upright. House literally stood his ground and kept Cuddy up there with him.

"Lisa, you're choking me."

Slowly, she loosened her grip and heard him inhale and exhale with great relief.

She looked into his eyes and suddenly understood what he wanted. Something so simple yet so _House_. Something that any other person wouldn't waste a second in dwelling over, but meant the world to someone whose crippled leg meant being unable to complete that otherwise effortless gesture. He had always wanted to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom. Something he had never been able to do. Until now.

"Whaddaya think, boss?" he asked quietly, turning in a slow circle, almost like he was dancing. Maybe he was.

"It's..._wonderful_!" She caught her breath, then laughed. "I can't believe it."

"Believe it, boss. I've been waiting for this moment for a very long time."

"Greg, this is just so...I mean, it's...it's," Unable to find the right words, Cuddy settled for smothering him with kisses.

House laughed softly and hugged her close, having no complaints as he carried her to the bedroom.


	18. Chapter 18

If House had been able to think straight, if he had been able to think at all when he watched Cuddy take off her blouse, he might have been frightened at how quickly she could take control and make him like it.

The lamp light was low, throwing a pale glow among the corners and shadows, illuminating the room just enough so they could see what they wanted to see and nothing more. He was flat on his back, she was straddling his hips. His sweatpants and her work clothes were in a tangled heap on the floor. The soft cotton fabric of his boxers tickled her thighs.

House admired her matching pink bra and panties with an approving smile.

"Year end clearance sale at Victoria's Secret?" he asked with a knowing chuckle.

"Hush," she said with a faint scowl and put a finger to his lips. "I didn't say you could talk."

"You're the boss, boss," he replied anyway, and prayed to a God he was positive didn't exist that she would punish him for talking. Maybe he would go to hell, but at least he would go with a smile on his face.

"Don't you ever forget it."

"I won't."

"_Be quiet_." Her nails dug into his chest, and she watched with immense delight as he trembled underneath her, dancing on the edge of pleasure and pain. He was hers and hers alone. At this moment he would do anything, _anything_ she wanted. She loved it when he let himself be vulnerable for her. She loved it when he put aside all his issues, fears, hang-ups, and let her run the show. She loved it when they stripped away all their clothes and all their barriers, losing themselves in each other. She loved it because he loved it even more. She loved it because she could reduce him to a quivering mass of nerves and leave him begging for seconds and thirds.

Cuddy leaned in and pressed her lips to his, soft at first, then deep and raw and fierce, feeling his taste spread across her tongue and run down her throat; rich and dark and strong and delicious. He suddenly broke away, leaving her gasping, and latched onto the smooth lines of her neck. His coarse stubble grazing along the delicate skin, along with the wonderful moist heat of his mouth brought out a muffled cry from her throat. Sometimes she forgot that he could reduce her to a quivering mass, and just as well.

Before she was too far gone to care about anything anymore, Cuddy seized his wrists and pinned them above his head. She looked down at her prize and took everything in, memorizing every tiny detail so she could relive the moment over and over again: his eyes dilated with pure desire, his red and panting mouth, his heaving chest, tiny beads of sweat rolling down his cheeks, his racing pulse pressing from his wrist to her palm, his heat and scent were rising and mixing with her own. The rest of the world melted away as her focus narrowed to the man beneath her, the man she needed and wanted and loved more than anything. Nothing else mattered. Nothing except Gregory House.

"Is there something you want, Greg?" she whispered, leaving a trail of quick, soft kisses up and down his neck, feeling his heat rise faster and faster. She wanted him to beg. She knew she could make him beg.

No answer.

"You may talk now."

No real answer, just a desperate, gasping, "_Lisa_..."

"Yes, Greg?"

"_Lisa_..._oh, Lisa_..."

"What do you want?"

"Lisa, _oh please_..."

"Answer my question, Greg. What do you want?"

"You...I want you. I want _you_," he stammered, his coherence quickly slipping into the most remote unexplored parts of oblivion. "Please...Lisa..._Oh, God_..._please_..."

Having him right where she wanted him, and deciding that he had been tortured enough, she reached behind her back to unhook her bra. Without warning, his hand reached over and clasped down on her wrist.

"Wait," he gasped.

"What is it?" She looked down at him, puzzled.

"I want to do that." His face was an incredible mix of surrender and intense lust and it all dripped into his words, which in turn dripped all around her. "May I, Lisa? Please?"

Smiling, she set her hands down on his belly and reveled in the shudder it produced. "Be my guest, Dr. House."

Slowly, deliberately, carefully he reached behind her and unhooked the soft pink bra. His long fingers looped around the satiny straps and slid them down her shoulders. Any remaining inhibitions and lucidity Cuddy may have possessed before that moment slid down with them.


	19. Chapter 19

House felt the silk fabric of Cuddy's bra slide through his fingers, then let his hands explore her skin, softer than the finest silk and smooth as water. He knew every last glorious inch of her, or so he thought. Every time they stripped away all their clothes and all their defenses he found something new, something different. A new scent, a new sensation, a new taste, a new emotion. There was always something unexcepted waiting for him. It was like getting a gift and he loved to untie the bow each and every time.

She stretched out on top of him like a cat and , dear God, he just _loved _the way her back arched in pure sensuality. He was drowning in her and he wrapped his arms around her in a futile effort to keep his head above the water. Her hair spilled over her shoulders as she leaned in to take his breath away with another deep kiss. He could feel her fingertips on his chest, white-hot as they brushed over his ribs and danced along his skin. There was nothing unsure or amateur in the way in the way she touched him and loved him. There was no careless fumbling of buttons. There were no awkward words or glances exchanged. She was as intense in the bedroom as she was in keeping her hospital running like a well-oiled machine and she damn well knew it. That's how she took control and wrapped House around her little finger.

Most of the time. Not always.

So much her skin against his, her breasts crushing against his chest, but it wasn't enough. House felt his need and want and desire flood through him and take over. In one abrupt movement he flipped his lover onto her back, pinning her with his weight, gloating and snickering at her gasping laughter. Her face flushed red with excitement and good old fashioned lust. Her heart beat against his, in rhythm with his. Now she belonged to him. Now his brilliant madness was in control.

He let his eyes wander over the woman on his bed. Her curves, her softness, her femininity was everything House craved when it came to the opposite sex. A woman who wasn't afraid to be so very female, even in the man's world she lived in and ran from her office. The woman who cared for him, filled the seemingly endless void and completed him.

"Tell me, boss, is this what you want?" he growled into her ear as he began to rock his hips slowly, teasingly. "Is it?"

She began to answer, but it was cut off by a strangled moan as he began to tug at her panties. House liked the whisper of the fabric as they slipped down her thighs.

* * *

"We need to talk," Cuddy said, untangling herself from the sheets. 

"About what?"

"About you."

"Can't we bask in the milky afterglow like everyone else?" the diagnostician grumbled, trying to bury himself under the pillows.

"It's past midnight, Greg. The afterglow is after-gone."

"For you, maybe."

"I'm serious."

"About needing to talk or the after-gone?" was his muffled question.

"Both."

"Fine. I'll continue to bask while you talk."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and propped up on the pillows, pulling the blankets up to ward off the early morning chill. "How are your gunshot wounds? Are they giving you any trouble?"

House looked up with startled, gaping expression at his bedmate. "We're still recovering from some of the most mind-blowing sex in the history of sex and you want to know if my gunshot wounds hurt?"

"Um...yes," she fumbled.

"Good grief, Lisa," he groaned. "After sex we're supposed to talk about your secret hopes and wildest dreams and bunnies and fluffy kittens, not gunshot wounds. Get some rest. You obviously need some more recovery time."

"I'm just fine. Now answer my question. Do they?"

"No, can't say they do. And before you ask, my leg is feeling just dandy, too."

"Great. That's what I thought. You're ready to come back to work."

"My leg hurts."

"Too late, Greg. It's time you came back."

"I think you did something to my stomach wound while you were on top."

"That didn't stop you from screaming "_Oh God, Lisa, right there_!" at the top of your lungs."

"The claw marks on my back are getting infected."

"I'll get the peroxide and clean them. You're coming back if I have to drag you by the hair."

House made a big production of sighing dramatically. "When's the big day, boss?"

"Monday."

"This Monday?"

"No, the first Monday in September 2038. Of course this Monday!"

"What's today?"

Cuddy stole a glance at the clock. "We are now an hour into Wednesday. You have five nice long days to get ready. I expect you there at nine o'clock sharp. Not one minute later."

"Okay then," he said. "Back to work means no more afternoon television. I guess I better get caught up on _General Hospital_."


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Some light fluff for the holidays. Enjoy!_

* * *

Sunlight shined into the windows, throwing their long shadows across the breakfast table. No clouds to cover up the bright blue sky. No rain in the forecast for the next week or so. That was very good news. Cuddy hoped nothing would keep House from his afternoon jog. 

"Stop eating all my waffles," House grumbled.

"You should have said something before I ate them," Cuddy said, trying to ignore him while reading the paper.

"They're _mine_."

"You mean the waffles _I_ bought, along with most of the food in your refrigerator out of the goodness of my heart?" Cuddy raised an eyebrow. "I think I'm entitled to one or two of them."

"That's what you think."

"Yes, I do think," she said. "You can part with a few replaceable waffles or you can get your grumpy ass back to the hospital on Friday."

"When hell freezes over. When pigs fly. When Danielle Steel wins the Pulitzer. When Tara Reid wins an Oscar. When Kevin Federline wins a Grammy."

"You can even come back today if you want," she teased after finishing off the last of her soy milk.

"Monday," House replied with overdone disinterest. "Nine o'clock. You said not one second later and I say not one second sooner."

"Well, if you change your mind..." She deliberately let that thought hang in the air as she got up and rinsed out her glass.

"Like that will ever happen," House said, as he picked the paper apart looking for the comics.

"There's a first time for everything."

"Not this time. Monday, Lisa. I need these next few days to get myself mentally ready."

"How are you going to do that?" she asked, reclaiming her seat at the table and frowning at the now destroyed morning newspaper. It took all of fives seconds for him to reduce it to an unrecognizable pile of pages.

"Catch up on my soaps and infomercials. I really like that Yoga Booty one, but I keep missing the first minute or so. I need to get that one on tape."

"Aim high, Greg." Cuddy drolled sarcastically, trying to get the pages back into some kind of coherent order so she could read the rest of it during lunch.

"You can have me back at the hospital in a good mood and with a clear head because the latest Greer Childers crap product was on again, or you can have me back there in a lousy mood because my boss decided to pick this nice early morning as the perfect time to question my television viewing tastes."

"Infomercials clear your head? Are you kidding me?"

"I never kid about my choices of entertainment," he said, as if he were discussing a work of art rather than a cornball advertisement. "I don't take them seriously. I don't have to think when I watch them. That helps me clear my head."

"If you don't take them seriously, then why do you want to tape them?"

"Because some of the chicks are _hot._"

"Oh, I get it. You watch them so you can think with your _other_ head, thus saving your vital brain power for something that might be really important."

"I'm sure a few of the people who are alive today because of me might say so. You must not mind too much if you and your nice, soft, frilly underthings share my humble abode every other night." House rested his chin in his hand.

"I didn't realize my competition came in the form of a few cheesy infomercial girls."

"I didn't realize you were so jealous of a few exercise chicks," he said with a satisfied smirk. "Those girls...I just like to watch them bounce and jiggle. You, on the other hand, I like to _touch_."

She asked coyly, "Is that all?"

"And maybe kiss every now and then."

"Thank you," she said with a roll of her eyes. "I need to get going. Do you want me to stop by later with some more waffles or are you going to be too busy _thinking _to notice me?"

"Why, do you want to watch?"

"Greg..."

He looked her up and down, then answered, "Park your touchable self and your frilly underthings in my bed tonight and I'll let you know who I've been thinking about all day."


	21. Chapter 21

Cuddy hoped to sleep through the night. Hoping wasn't enough.

It was the click of the bedroom door closing that woke her up. Why was the door closed? She reached over to the other side of the bed, finding only the warmth he had left behind. Cuddy curled up in it and looked down at the soft glow of the living room light sneaking in under the door. A click and the low, unintelligible babble of voices from the television. Then the heavy clunk on the counter as he got out a bottle of scotch. It wasn't a dream. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, House was up in the middle of the night again.

The television was on. That meant he was planning on being up for a while, if not the rest of the night.

Well, as long as she was up...

House was settling back onto the couch to watch a Vietnam war documentary when he heard the yapping squeak of the bedroom door. He watched as his lover made her bleary-eyed way to join him, only to stub her toe on the table. She let out a string of curses that made House blush, then hopped the last three steps and collapsed on the cushion next to him. He put his arm around her and pulled her closer, more than a little angry that she was losing sleep because she felt the need to keep him company. He kept his anger to himself. Smacking her toe was more than enough punishment for one restless night. If he let his anger show through, she would probably turn around and rip his head off.

"You okay there, boss?" he asked quietly, as Cuddy grimaced and massaged her injured foot.

"Ouch! Damn, that hurts..."

"Did you break anything?"

"No...no, it just hurts like a bitch," she replied with clenched teeth. "By the way, I now officially hate this table."

"Duly noted."

"If I ever stub my toe on it again, this thing is becoming firewood."

"If I had a fireplace, that threat might mean something. What are you doing up this time of night, young lady?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," she answered, looking up at him, "except without the 'young lady' part."

"I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep," he said. "It's as simple as that."

"You woke me up when you closed the door."

"Yeah, well, that wasn't supposed to happen."

"Is your leg hurting again?"

"No," he said a little too curtly.

"It's been a long time since you've been up in the middle of the night," Cuddy observed. "Is everything alright?"

"The insomnia was feeling neglected."

"Neglected?"

"He's afraid I don't love him anymore, so he stopped in to say 'hi'."

She set her aching foot on the now hated table. The big toe was red and a bit swollen, the polish chipped all to hell. "Why now?" Cuddy asked with a touch of concern.

"He's jealous of you. It's a full moon. It's Friday the thirteenth. How should I know?"

"Why did it have to wait until you're ready to back to work?"

"Because it could. It always pops up at odd times. I've had insomnia since I was a kid. I've learned to live it. Why can't you?"

"I shouldn't have to and neither should you."

"Well, when you put it _that_ way, Lisa, I guess I should be off to bed now for my full nine hours. Make that ten."

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked in all seriousness.

"Just dandy, boss. It's just insomnia. I'll be fine."

"Do you need more recovery time? You can have all the time you need."

"I'm going back to work on Monday, Lisa. I'm ready, willing and able. We didn't become doctors because we're so worried about our beauty sleep."

That made her snicker. She stayed up with him for another half hour, and made him promise to have breakfast waiting for her if he was still up when the alarm went off. Cuddy staggered back to the bedroom and closed the door. Despite all appearances, she knew something was bothering House and he was trying to hide it. Was his leg bothering him? Was that why he couldn't sleep? She clicked on the lamp and looked for the bottle of Vicodin on the night table.

The bottle was missing.


	22. Chapter 22

House came bounding into her office after jogging the eight miles to the hospital. He was dripping with sweat, out of breath, and ready to take on anything. Cuddy gave him a big smile, and cast a surreptitious I-told-you-so glance at Wilson. The oncologist tried to that he didn't see her while shuffling through the piles of patient files on the table. He and Cuddy had been trying to find a suitable case for the easily bored diagnostician, something to challenge his mind but at the same time wouldn't overwhelm him on his first day back.

He was running up and down the corridors like a kid on sugar rush. His cane was nowhere in sight. He was riding around on skateboards, skidding across the freshly mopped floors, _Risky Business_ style. He was here, there, and everywhere.

Later, when she heard that he crashed into a an operating room and diagnosed a patient with scurvy, Cuddy figured that House was back and better than ever. Whatever that means.

Then Cuddy and Wilson made the mistake of trying to teach House a little humility. That went over like a lead balloon. Even the sight of him begging at her bedroom window wouldn't change her mind about the lesson she was positive he needed to learn. All it took was one shot of cortisal to blow up in her face. A nagging little voice in the back of her mind kept telling her that House would never forgive her for it. They had a few less-than-subtle arguments over that one.

The missing bottle of Vicodin never turned up. House kept saying that he hadn't had any narcotics for weeks. Cuddy kept her mouth shut for the time being. Looking back, she realized that had been her biggest mistake. She wanted to believe that he was pain free and drug free. She wanted to believe too much and didn't push it when she saw the warning signs. Then the underage girl began hanging around the hospital and stalking House, causing Cuddy to nearly pull her hair out with all the calls to security.

The diagnostician later determined the cause of her behavior after seeing her cry some milky tears. It wasn't entirely the girl's fault her inhibitions south for the winter. Well, maybe a little. Cuddy didn't really care and was glad she got some medication and was history. But the girl was young enough to his daughter, and her's. That raised the ick factor up a notch or two.

The important thing was House was feeling better. At least for now.

When she saw the limp returning, her heart sank. The limp meant his leg hurt, and his leg hurting meant that he was going to back to the only thing that brought him any kind of relief before–Vicodin.

Trying to talk some sense into him was like trying to talk to a wall, and just about as effective. Even when he was rubbing his right thigh he insisted that he wasn't in pain. He just jogged a little to long that morning. It was a leg cramp, that's all. End of story.

Not for the Dean of Medicine. Not by a long shot.

"Stop lying to me," Cuddy said in a low, serious voice, standing with her arms crossed in front of his desk. "Stop it right now."

"Lying about what?" House said, making a big dramatic show out of looking surprised that she would accuse him of such a thing. Nevermind that she had good reason to. "I get one leg cramp and now I'm a liar?"

"You know as well as I do that the ketamine isn't a cure-all. If your leg is hurting you need to tell me."

"It's not hurting."

"Why were you limping earlier today?" she demanded, tapping her foot.

"I wasn't."

"Dammit, Greg, you're lying to me again."

"I wasn't lying to you then and I'm not lying to you now."

"Yes, you are. You're lying to me. Why?"

"For crying out loud, Lisa–"

"If you're in pain, we need to do something about it. The pain will make you stop exercising, then your muscle will atrophy and then you'll be right back to where you started."

"I'm not going back there."

"Good. I don't want you to go back there, either."

"Lisa, if my leg was starting to bother me again, don't you think I'd do everything I could to stop it?"

She paused, then admitted, "I suppose."

"It was just cramping. It will be fine."

"All right," she said with the same low seriousness as before.

"That's the truth." he said with a small smile.

She tried to return and couldn't. She knew he was still lying about something. "Let me know if your leg starts cramping again."

"I will."

Cuddy turned and left his office. He waited five minutes to make sure she wasn't coming back and reached into his jacket pocket for the bottle of Vicodin.


	23. Chapter 23

The cane was back. Cuddy's worst nightmare was realized. The damn hated cane was back.

House came into the lobby, limping as much as he ever did, the cane back in his right hand. Walking appeared to be painful for him. Every step caused a grimace that pulled down on his mouth. The knapsack slipped off his shoulder, causing him to nearly lose his balance in the process. He grunted and rubbed his right thigh. She tried to go over to help but he shot her a look had "don't even start" written all over it. She backed off and watched him limp painfully to the elevator.

The limp was back, the pain was back, the cane was back. He was taking Vicodin again. She had seen him swallow a pill the night before when he was at her home for dinner. He was hiding them from her. That was something he had never done before. Before the shooting he all but had "I'm an addict and proud of it" taped to his back. Was he trying to hide something else? Or did he just not want her to know and, in his own bizarre way, was trying to protect her from that.

He refused to talk about it. No matter what she said or how she said it, he wouldn't go into any detail. When he would actually answer one of her questions, it was usually with the old "I'm fine" standby or "Don't you have anything better to do?" Her favorite answer as to why he couldn't talk about it was "Leave me alone. _The O.C. _has been cancelled."

The ketamine treatment had failed, big time. He was right back where he started. Full circle. He was miserable and hurting and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Not yet anyway. Just like when House had the recurring nightmare and she gathered up all the information she could find on dreams and dreaming, she was reading any and every article on pain management she could find.

The pain was just as bad as before, if not worse. It was consuming him whole and she could see that he was beginning to push her away, closing himself off from everyone around him. House was never the most open person to begin with, and it had taken Cuddy countless hours and endless patience to knock down the wall he had built around himself. That wall was slowly but surely coming back up again, brick by brick, and she wasn't going to stand by and watch him put the last one in place and disappear forever.

* * *

"Answer me," she said when he tried to walk away without telling her he was back on the Vicodin. She wanted him to say it out loud. She wasn't going to let him ignore her questions that night. He wasn't leaving the hospital until she saw the prescription bottle for herself. 

"No," he muttered, and began to step around her.

Cuddy blocked his path again. "It's a yes or no question, Greg. Now answer it."

"I'm not answering anything. Now get the hell out of my way."

"Answer me, show me the bottle, and you can go."

"I'm not going to."

"Goddammit, just answer the question!" Her voice rose along with her anger at him. What was so damned hard about saying yes or no? "Answer the question and show me the bottle!"

"Will you leave me the hell alone if I do?" he replied coldly, and the temperature seemed to drop all around them. Cuddy expected to see their breath cloud in the air. "I'm getting just a tad sick and tired of your constant nagging, nagging, and more nagging."

"Good," she said without missing a beat. House was taken aback for a split second. "I'm getting just a little tired of your lying."

"Lying about what?"

"You're taking Vicodin again."

"No, I'm not. Now get out of my way."

"I _saw_ you!" Cuddy erupted. "You took a pill last night! First you lied about your leg not hurting again and now you're lying about the Vicodin. What's next, Greg? What's the next lie going to be about?"

"Yeah, my fucking leg is hurting again," he snarled back, and smacked his cane against the wall so hard that splinters flew in the air. Cuddy jumped back a good six inches, her eyes wide with worry and fear. "Just what the hell are you going to do about it, Lisa? Huh? Going to call Stacy for a little advice on that? She was so fucking _sure_ that she knew what was right for me the last time."

Ouch. That one cut her down to the bone. "You need to find another way to deal with it," Cuddy told him with an amazingly calm voice, considering how her heart was hammering away in her chest.

House looked down at her with a small humorless grin. It gave Cuddy the creeps. "You've been researching it, haven't you? That's why you've been coming in with the extra large coffees. You've spent the last week staying up half the night, pecking away at your computer, doing your precious research. You've got the plan and the treatment center picked out already, right? Because everyone but _me_ knows what's best for _me_. Everyone except _me_ gets to decide what to do with _me_."

"Greg, you need some help. You need to stop the Vicodin and–"

"The only thing I need right now is another Vicodin and for you to get lost."

"You're not leaving until–"

"Lisa," he said in a low voice so devoid of emotion that it made Cuddy's blood run cold, "don't make me push you out of the way."

Shivering, she stepped aside. House limped by without another word. She could feel the coldness on him as he passed. He made a beeline for the nearest exit. He didn't look back.

"Your leg is still hurting even with the Vicodin!" Cuddy called after the diagnostician. "Maybe tomorrow you can explain exactly how that's helping you!"

House paused at the door, then stepped out and slammed it behind him.


	24. Chapter 24

House lay on his sofa and let the dark room swallow him up. No lights, no television to provide background noise. The only illumination came from the corner streetlight. He closed his eyes hoped the Vicodin wave he was riding would carry him into a senseless nirvana. He hoped to lose the newest round of agony in his leg for a while, agony that felt like red-hot rusty spikes being driven into his thigh. He hoped to lose the guilt at being such a cold-hearted son of a bitch to the woman he loved. That hurt in an entirely different way, but just as much.

He just wanted the hurting to go away. Was that too much to ask?

But he was finding, much to his chagrin, that his guilt wasn't all that easy to dull with narcotics. Neither was the fresh pain in his right thigh for that matter.

Pain and guilt. The two things that were running his life again. The two things that were affecting every decision he had to make. He hated them.

_Lisa, don't make me push you out of the way._

It wasn't always like this. His mind flipped back through the pages of his history, back to his youth when he didn't have a care in the world; he had always been exploring the newest corner of the world that the Marines had brought his parents to, hiking, biking, running around with his friends, creating non-stop havoc in the neighborhood until it was time to pack up and start the cycle all over again. He had lived in so many foreign lands, had a taste of so many cultures, seen more than a few of the natural wonders that existed thousands of miles apart under the same blue sky. Back then he had really lived. He had been truly alive then. He had been _alive_.

_So what am I now?_ House thought morosely.

Good question. What was the answer?

Did he even want to know?

Too late. The answer was there. It had always been there.

Since the surgery, he hadn't been living, he had been _existing_. His new existence was measured in little white pills. Was it time for another pill? Where are the pills? Is it time for another refill? Pills, pills, pills. Even the most intimate wonderfully moments spent with Cuddy were eventually interrupted by the need for the damn pills. The damn pills. They were they only thing that dulled the pain; the constant pain; the pain that never ever ended, the pain, the pain, the _fucking pain_...

_Your leg is still hurting even with the Vicodin! Maybe tomorrow you can explain exactly how that's helping you!_

Those few weeks after the ketamine treatment had been pure heaven. All the little things that had been missing from his life for the last decade or so he had been able to do without worrying about paying for it in the form of a low, grinding agony later in the day. To walk without the cane, to run, to sweep up Cuddy in his arms and carry her to the bedroom, to feel like a whole person again and not a worthless crippled bastard chained to a prescription bottle. He had been able to walk up a flight of stairs. He had been able to sleep through the night.

Pure heaven.

But he didn't believe in heaven. And now he knew why.

His life had been given back to him again, only to be snatched away when he let his attention wander for the briefest second. The rug was pulled, the trap door was opened, the sucker punch was thrown, and House landed right on his ass. He should have seen it coming. Why didn't he? Because he wanted so badly to believe that he could live a normal life again? Maybe, maybe not. Either way he was stupid to not see that it was all too good to last. It was so _cruel_, and he'd laugh if it all wasn't so damned pathetic.

Now here he was, all alone as the rest of the world went by without him, drowning in his pain and misery and regret and guilt. How pathetic.

Those first few weeks...

How he wanted the feeling of those first few weeks back.

_Greg, you need some help._

_The only thing I need is another Vicodin and for you to get lost._

Those first few weeks...

They were gone now, slipped through his fingers like sand. Gone. The second chance he had been given was gone forever. All that was left were a few memories. Memories that floated up like wisps of smoke and tormented him. Memories of what he had once been and could never be again. Because the second chance was gone. There wasn't going to be a third.

The realization of how badly he had been _cheated_ out of that second chance, how it all had snatched away, crushed him like a boulder. He could feel the weight of it crushing his chest, crushing the life out of him until he snapped back to reality, gasping for breath.

Still in the dark living room. The pain was keeping him company.

He swallowed another Vicodin. The little white pill. His comfort. His crutch. His best friend. His worst enemy.

He wanted his old life back.

He didn't want the pain to consume him, but knew that it was going to anyway. Sooner or later it was going to swallow him whole, kicking and screaming, and he wouldn't be able to stop it.


	25. Chapter 25

The living room was still cloaked in darkness, a few familiar corners and shapes registered in his tired, glazed eyes. Everything was fuzzy, grainy, he felt detached and far away, floating into a nothingness. What time was it? House didn't know the answer, or care. What day was it? He didn't know or care about that either. All he knew was that he was hurting again and he wasn't alone anymore. Did he forget to lock the front door? Oh no...Someone else was there and he was suddenly afraid. Faint footsteps came closer and House was terrified, he couldn't move or run; the shooter was back, the shooter had come back to finish the job and this time he wouldn't miss–

"Greg?"

A woman's voice. It belonged to his boss, his lover. Lisa Cuddy's voice.

House gasped for the breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"Ssshhhh...it's okay. It's me." The voice was soft and sweet and reassuring. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's just me."

She sat at the edge of the sofa, the cold night air still clinging to her. He hadn't expected her to come back so soon, figuring she would need at least another day to cool off before she approached him again. How wrong he had been about that. The fear in him ebbed away, leaving behind the bitterness and emptiness that he had been wallowing in all evening.

"What are you doing here? What do you want?" he muttered.

"I wanted to see you. Do you need another reason?" A few strands of her hair picked up what little light found its way to the room, silver threads haloed around her head.

"Yes, I do. What do you really want, Lisa?"

"You shouldn't be alone right now."

"Go away."

"No. I'm not leaving you like this."

A cool hand touched his face, a cool hand with silky skin, tinged with the scent of the January outdoors, a soothing touch. God, how he needed that right now, how he loved the feeling of her skin against his own. The harsh words he had left her with at the hospital earlier in the evening came back and he felt a deep pang of guilt. House gave up all pretense of arguing with her, just wanting to feel her soothing touch for the rest of the night, for the rest of forever. She wrapped her hand around his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Come on, Greg. Let's get you to bed. You'll be more comfortable there."

"I can't," he moaned. "My leg hurts...it hurts..."

"Your bedroom is right over there." She put her arm under his back and urged him to sit up. "Ten steps. I know you can walk ten steps for me. Ten steps and you can lay down and get some rest"

He felt the cane pushed into his hand, and House pulled himself up to his feet as the band of rusty spikes tightened around his leg, from his knee to his hip. Cuddy's arm slipped around his waist and carefully steered him toward the bedroom. With the first step his leg threatened to collapse from underneath him, and he felt Cuddy leaning heavily into him, trying to hold him up. If he fell to the floor, he wasn't getting back up. He wasn't going to let himself be that helpless, not in front of the one person he cared about, not in front of anyone. He paused and balanced on his left leg, readjusting his grip on the cane.

It took twelve steps to get to the bed. He collapsed onto it, panting, hearing an "_Oomph_!" as he inadvertently brought Cuddy down with him.

She said something that he didn't listen to and left the room. Clinks and creaks drifted into the room as House closed his eyes, willed himself to relax, and felt the band around his leg loosen up a notch. Still too tight, still hurt like hell, but better than it was before Cuddy arrived. Footsteps as she came back into the room. A rattling sound. The bottle of Vicodin. That rattle was music to his ears. His eyes snapped open.

"How many of these have you had today?" she asked.

"Not enough. I can never get enough," he replied, and couldn't stop himself when he was suddenly overcome with an inane giggling fit. He stopped long enough to swallow the pill she gave him and take a drink from the glass of water she held up to his lips.

House fell back onto the pillow, wanting nothing more than to drift away and lose himself for a while. He felt Cuddy's soft soothing hands on his forehead, then they began to unbutton his shirt.

"Lisa, you're insatiable," he murmured, and giggled again. "You minx..."

"Yeah, that's me," she replied quietly. "Sit up."

"I don't want to."

"Sit up for me, Greg. Please. Just for a few seconds."

He did, grumbling the whole time as she slipped the shirt off his shoulders. When she started to pull up on his tee shirt, he batted her hands away, complaining about the cold. She sighed and left it alone. It _was_ cold, as the hardwood floor beneath his bare feet had already told him. Carefully, she pulled off his jeans, hearing her whisper apologies as he yelped in pain when the right pant leg caught around his ankle.

"It's almost over," she said. "I need you to stand up."

"_Noooo_...," House protested, and buried his head in the pillow. He couldn't remember a time when getting ready for bed was so painful and exhausting.

"You need to stand up so I can pull back the covers."

"Lisa, please, my leg hurts and I'm so tired...," he moaned . Even though he was shivering in the cold winter night, the thought of standing up again was enough to make his head spin.

"Five seconds," she said gently, stroking his cheek. "I know you're tired and I know you're cold. Stand up for five seconds and you'll be under the warm covers and you can go to sleep. You've come this far, Greg. Five more seconds."

The room was freezing, or maybe he was just imagining things, but he managed to stand up. The floor felt like a sheet of ice. After the eternally long five seconds, he was back in the bed with the covers pulled up to his chin. He could feel the warmth of his own body heat from where he had been laying. The shivering stopped.

Bedsprings creaked and covers rustled as Cuddy joined him. She curled up next to him, and he reached out for her, feeling the familiar cotton fabric of his tee shirt and sweatpants covering her form.

"_Thief_," he muttered, and she chuckled.

She gave him a quick, soft kiss. "Goodnight, Greg."

"Lisa?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. You know that, right?"

A few beats of silence. "Yes, I know that."

"Good. No matter what I might say, I never want you to think otherwise," he said softly, and pulled her closer.


	26. Chapter 26

"I love you, too," Cuddy said, and gave him another kiss. "Get some rest. I need you at the hospital tomorrow."

"Does the hospital really need me that much?"

"Yes, it does."

"How much?" he asked with genuine curiosity, taking her hand and bringing it up to his cheek.

"I thought you were tired."

"I am. Just answer the question."

"The ground will open and the hospital will be swallowed up if you're not there tomorrow."

"That's one way to put it."

"Greg, be quiet and go to sleep. I answered your question."

"You're too good for me," he said quietly, letting go of her hand.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you are."

"How _can_ you say that?" She honestly wanted to know the answer, and why he suddenly decided to voice that little out-of-the-blue comment.

I love you. You know that, right?

House replied, "Because it's the truth," and then he was through talking. He tilted his head away from her and stared past the dark room. She could see his eyes blink against the ghostly green light of the alarm clock. After a while his eyes stayed closed and his inner turmoil decided to settle down for a few hours. It would be back soon enough, too soon for her liking.

She wished he could be happy. Cuddy had found herself wondering what would have happened if Stacy hadn't decided on the surgery. Would he have turned into the same bitter misanthrope? Probably not. She thought about asking what he thought might have happened to him and to Stacy and their lives together, but decided that was something she was better off being in the dark about. She had found out the hard way that digging up memories of Stacy and the surgery just put him in a gloomy mood that could last for weeks. That little gold nugget of speculation could stay buried. Maybe someday the price would be high enough and it would be worth trying to dig up. But not today.

She wished his leg could heal. She wished he could walk without the cane. She wished he would stop popping the pills like breathmints. Why did the ketamine treatment fail? How much longer could he endure his crippled leg? She wished the pain would go away and stay away. The pain hurt her too. It hurt everyone. Maybe more than it hurt him.

My leg hurts...it hurts...

House was sleeping a semi-restful sleep. He wasn't tossing and turning like he usually does, just mumbling away. Cuddy had gotten used to his nighttime quirks, whether it be talking in his sleep or getting up hours before the rest of the world and staying awake hours after the rest of the world decided to call it a night. The rest of world would be amazed at what she had learned to sleep through.

Tomorrow morning she would make a nice breakfast in hopes of cheering him up a little. Hopefully he would be feeling better then. She needed to talk with him about finding another way to deal with his pain, something that didn't involve highly addictive little white pills, but didn't want it to seem like she was laying in wait for an ambush. He would see it that way, see it as her kicking him when he was already down and had been for years. It may have to come to that.

_Please don't let it come to that,_ she thought morosely as she watched his sleeping profile in the pale green light.

He was already teetering on the edge. The last thing in the world she wanted was to be the one who pushed him over.

She still needed to do a little more research into it since he sure as hell wouldn't do it. A little more research. A few more days. Present her findings to him when he was wasn't half-insane from his leg.

Cuddy smiled as House muttered "Just _shut up _and do what I say" to whichever member of his team he was terrorizing in his dreams. Some things never change.

I love you. You know that, right?

Yes, she knew that.

No matter what I say, I never want you to think otherwise.

And she never would. Never. No matter what.


	27. Chapter 27

A mumbled "Thanks" was all Cuddy got when she set the big bowl of oatmeal in front of House. Mounds of brown sugar melted all over it and swirled into the milk. He liked the brown sugar. Usually he made her put in another spoonful or two. Not today. No arguments from him this morning. He began to eat quietly. No comments about the quality of the food, no speculation about the de-evolving of the human race, no friendly debates about the coming collapse of Western civilization.

That wasn't a good sign.

He had been awake for over three hours already. She had laid in bed and listened to him walk in endless circles around the living room. No television, no piano, just the monotonous_ click click _of the cane as he wore a groove in the hardwood floor.

Another bad sign.

Cuddy got her own bowl of oatmeal, took her place at the table and stole another glance at him. His face had all the expressiveness of an Easter Island statue. His normally electric-blue eyes were droopy and flat and bloodshot. He looked like hell.

The wall was coming up again, the wall House hid behind when the depression and pain hit and he felt that he couldn't face another day. While Cuddy felt he had every reason to be depressed at the moment, she couldn't let him shut out the rest of the world this time. Because this time he was going to shut everyone out for good, including her. That couldn't happen. It wasn't going to happen. Not if she could help it. She was going to pull him back over the wall or die trying.

"The weather is supposed to warm up a little next week," she said, trying to lighten the mood and get him to talk. "I don't know about you but I'm over this cold snap."

"Mm-hmm," was his only reply. He didn't bother looking up.

"Maybe we'll get an early Spring and you can get the motorcycle back out."

No response. Just the clink of the spoon hitting the bowl.

"Hopefully it won't rain too much this year."

Silence.

"Do you need a ride to the hospital today?" Cuddy persisted, trying to get three words out of him. Three words and she would back off and eat her breakfast.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

He looked up at her then, his eyes as warm and inviting as the Arctic tundra. "Yes," he said, his voice so cold that for a second Cuddy thought she could see his breath.

_I'm not giving up on you. Not after all we've been through_, she thought and leaned forward. "Greg, talk to me. Please."

"No."

"Greg–"

"_No_!"

"Will you just–"

"Lisa," he broke in, his glare getting icier by the second. "I said 'no'."

"Look, I know your leg hurts–"

With lightning speed his arm swept across the table, sending his breakfast crashing to the floor. Gooey splashes of oatmeal and brown sugar splattered and dripped down the cabinet doors. Half the kitchen floor was covered with it, a soggy, sticky lake. Jagged, broken pieces of the bowl glittered in the bright morning sunlight.

It was a beautiful morning. It was supposed to be just another day.

Cuddy stared with wide-eyed horror at the mess, frozen in place, her throat feeling swollen and closed. Oh please, it can't be this bad. It can't be. He can't be in that much pain, can he? He was; all the evidence she needed had just been thrown across the kitchen. Is this what the pain had reduced him to? What's going to happen if it gets worse? How much longer could he live like this? What will happen to him? What will happen to them?

"You don't know a _goddamn thing_," House growled through clenched teeth, then pulled himself up with the cane and stalked out of the room.

She followed, only dimly aware of a sharp stinging on the bottom of her foot. She couldn't let him get away and let him lock himself up forever. There would be no coming back out if he did. There wasn't a spare key. She wasn't sure if she was capable of picking the lock.

"Greg," she gasped, fighting back tears, "you have to do something about your pain. You have to–"

"Shut up!"

Cuddy grabbed his arm and dug her nails into his skin. "You have to do something before–"

"Shut up! Just _shut up_!" House wrenched his arm away. Cuddy's nails left behind large crescent-shaped welts. "You stupid bitch, just shut the fuck up already!"

The slap across his face was loud and hard. Cuddy watched as House's head whipped to the side from the force of her blow and his expression instantaneously switched from furious to unbelieving, then as the hand-shaped mark filled in with red. The red matched her own anger which was now blazing a bright, fiery crimson as she shook uncontrollably, gulping in large chunks of air. The unstable atmosphere crackled all around them, threatening to explode into a tornadic storm with the slightest spark.

As if he still couldn't believe it had really happened, the diagnostician slowly brought his hand up to his wounded cheek, touched it and winced.

"Oh, my God." His voice was low and shaky as if he barely had the energy to get the words out. "Oh, my God...oh no..."

"Greg," Cuddy began slowly, carefully. "This can't wait any longer."

House nodded his head, touched his cheek and winced again.


	28. Chapter 28

The slap left behind a colorful bruise. House's team thankfully picked up on his miserable frame of mind real quick and decided it was better not to ask about it.

Of course, when they needed to sit down and have a serious discussion, everything else got in the way. They saw only when they ran into each other in the corridors, sometimes literally. Too much to do and not enough time to do it. Cuddy was up to her eyeballs with trying to keep the hospital running smoothly, and House had a new patient: a young newlywed with burning skin, rapid hair loss, and numbness.

The patient had thallium poisoning. It was the oldest story in the book: her husband had been trying to kill her for the insurance money, giving her a massive dose in a milkshake before she was brought to the hospital The husband was arrested and the young woman was left paralyzed and could no longer speak. _Just like Bobby told me, it's always for love or money_, House commented with a brooding scowl before limping back to his office.

Needless to say, he was in a less-than-cheery mood by the time he stepped into her home two days later. That didn't stop him from picking up a pint Mocha Almond Fudge along the way.

"What's that for?" she asked, as he sat at the table and peeled off the safety seal.

"I can give a crude, tasteless answer about you and your womanly cycles and cravings," he answered, "or I can say that this is my way of apologizing. Which will it be?"

"I accept your apology."

"Somehow, I knew you would. How about bringing a couple of spoons before this melts."

House watched her walk over to the dishwasher and noticed a little detail that he was all too familiar with, except he never dreamed that he would see it on Cuddy. "Why are you limping?" he asked apprehensively.

"I stepped on a piece of shattered oatmeal bowl," she answered calmly, as if it were a part of her daily routine while plucking two clean, shiny spoons from the dishwasher. It had been running not long before the diagnostician had arrived. He could still smell the detergent.

"Hmm...I see." He relaxed and opened up the ice cream. "Then you got a tetanus shot. That's why you kept rubbing your arm while you were eating lunch in your office yesterday."

"Very perceptive," she said, handing over a spoon, a little wary that she hadn't noticed him watching her while she ate a salad at her desk.

Limping and a tetanus shot. A simple connection. Child's play for House. But sometimes she found his ability to read people and connect seemingly random incidents a bit unnerving. She was positive that he knew more about her, her thoughts and her habits than he let on.

"My forte." He pushed the ice cream over to her, letting her have the first spoonful.

She ate the first bite and pushed the container back to him before she said, "I shouldn't have slapped you." Her voice was dripping with regret.

"I called you a bitch. I deserved it."

"Yes, you did deserve it, but that doesn't make what I did right."

House paused to munch on a chocolate-covered almond, then said, "It doesn't make it wrong either."

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be."

"I am."

"Lisa, you know damn good and well that I forgive you," he said, and pushed the ice cream to her.

Cuddy pushed it the middle of the table and left it there. "We're adults. We can share without fighting." She was pleased when he gave her a small smile, the first smile she had seen from him in days.

The ice cream was good and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

She put her spoon down. House ate one more bite and put his spoon down. Then he put the lid back on, got up, put the ice cream in the freezer and sat back down without saying a word.

"There are treatments and therapies out there that can help you cope, Greg," Cuddy began. "There are other non-addictive drugs you can take."

"Therapy?" He sounded suspicious.

"Psychological counseling–"

"As in some over-paid quack messing with my head? No thanks."

"There are good therapists out there and you know it. I know you're angry that the ketamine didn't work and I know you're in pain–"

"Goddamn right I am," he broke in, his voice flat.

Cuddy was glad there wasn't anything within his reach that he could pick up and throw across the room. "But you can get _help_," she continued. "Help that you need and that you deserve." A good therapist was exactly what he needed, and he wouldn't set foot in a therapist's office for all the Vicodin in the world. More than a little of his pain since the shooting, and probably before, was psychosomatic–the ketamine didn't work therefore he was _supposed_ to be in agony–but decided to keep that thought to herself for the time being.

"Do I really deserve it?" he asked.

It always disturbed her to hear him talk about himself like that, like he had done something horrible and he was sentenced to live in agony for eternity to pay his debt to society, whatever that was.

"If I thought for a second that you really deserved to live like this, I would have never let you into my home and into my life," she said quietly. "I never would have loved you, Gregory House. _Nobody_ deserves to live like this. Why do you think that you do? Why do you think that you deserve to be miserable? There are plenty of people out there ready to help you. Why won't you accept their help?"

"Because in the end, after all the pep-talks of what a fantabulous person I supposedly am, after I do the deep breathing exercises and sing Kum Ba Yah, after I take all the wonder drugs, I'm still going to be in pain."

"You don't know–"

"No, _you_ don't know. But I do."

"There has to be something that someone can do for you," Cuddy said, pleading. "Name it, and I'll see to it that you get it."

House looked up and into her eyes. "Just stay with me, Lisa," he answered softly. "That's all I want right now."


	29. Chapter 29

"You don't have to be in this much pain," Cuddy said, leaning into the table and taking his hand. "You can be in _less _pain."

"So?" House answered laconically, as if he knew what she was going to say ahead of time and had his answers ready.

"Doesn't the idea of being in less pain appeal to you at all?"

"No, not really."

"_What_...why?" She couldn't believe her ears. He wasn't jumping at the chance to get at least some relief? What the hell was wrong with him?

"Pain is still pain, Lisa, no matter how much you try to pretty it up." He pulled back his hand, then rested his chin on the cane. "The best shrink in the world can't even begin to touch it. I want what I had before, or else I don't want anything at all, because nothing else is worth it."

"Before?"

"I want what I had before a certain someone decided to have the muscle taken out of my leg," he replied thickly. "I want what I had when the ketamine was working. It's all or nothing. There's no in-between here."

"How can you honestly sit there and say something is _not_ better than nothing at all?"

"Because I know. Even if I can get some relief, it won't be worth the effort."

"But you haven't even tried–"

"I don't _have_ to try _anything_. It's _useless_. Utterly and completely useless. Unless you want to shoot me and give the ketamine one more chance, I suggest we cut this conversation short before we end up screaming at each other again."

They sat at the table in silence, the air thick with her worry and his annoyance.

Cuddy finally spoke up. "You don't have to live like this."

"Too late for that," he said, then tipped a Vicodin into his mouth. "I don't think my leg can take the ride home."

"You can't take Vicodin forever. One of these days you will have to switch to something else."

"Will I?"

"You know that all too well."

"I'll deal with that when the time comes. Can I spend the night, boss?"

"Your sweats and shirts are in the bottom drawer."

"You spoil me," he said, as if it had never entered his mind that she might tell him to get lost. "Is Jack going to make an appearance tonight?"

"Jack is in the hamper. Sorry."

"_Hmph_," House grumbled. "I'll have to get you a back-up." He got up and stalked to the living room. The television clicked on and the air was soon filled with the sounds of the History Channel. Another WWII documentary. They were all the same to her, but nothing else was on and she wasn't about to start WWIII over who wanted to watch what.

The pain management conversation was over for the time being. She'd bring it up again tomorrow and show him some of the articles she had printed out. Maybe he would read them, maybe not. At least she could say that she tried.

She got up and rinsed off the spoons, wondering how much his leg really hurt at the moment. House wasn't above using his handicap as a sympathy ploy on her. He was at least smart enough not to use it too often. More likely than not, he just didn't want to spend the night alone in his apartment. Not that she really cared; she didn't want to go to bed angry at him for the third night in a row. She smiled to herself. House wasn't the only one who wanted some company. They spent so many nights in each others bed that it was weird to sleep alone. The bed always felt too big when he was gone.

Cuddy went to the kitchen doorway and looked over at House. He was in his favorite spot, his good leg on the table just to irritate the hell out of her. He was absently rubbing his right thigh. So he wasn't lying. Riding the motorcycle home would be murder.

"It's lonely over here, boss," he said without looking at her.

She padded over and nudged his leg off the table before curling up next to him. A faint chuckle floated down as he put an arm around her shoulder. "This is all I need," House murmured.

"What?" Cuddy looked up, puzzled.

"Being here with you." He sighed and squeezed her shoulder with more than a little affection.

Cuddy relaxed into his embrace. He certainly had a point. Their time together was almost always a good thing, and almost always had a positive effect on his mood. The exceptions to that rule were thankfully few and far between.

"Therapy would do you good, Greg," she said slowly after a good deal of hesitation, taking one last stab at the therapy talk. "I'd pay for it myself."

"You're better than any therapy," House replied, and turned back to the television.


	30. Chapter 30

She knew he wasn't the least bit sleepy, but House was already under the blankets by the time Cuddy began her bedtime routine. He didn't speak or move, apparently perfectly comfortable just laying there and hugging a pillow, taking in every detail as she padded around the bedroom. Cuddy was reminded of the way the eyes of a painting seem to follow a person everywhere. House quietly watched her change into the Jim Morrison shirt, a small but satisfied smile curled on his mouth.

He hadn't said much over the rest of the evening. That was almost always a bad sign, but the usual suspect-depression-wasn't to shoulder all the blame, and it wasn't all bad. He was just thinking things over. Hopefully a few of her suggestions about pain management were starting to sound half-way acceptable to his ears. Less pain was better than doing nothing about it all, right? Why couldn't he see that? What exactly was he looking for? She hoped that he would abandon his all-or-nothing approach and at least look into a few alternatives.

She climbed into bed, clicked off the lamp, settled in, and waited for him to make the first move. He did. The bed shifted and sheets rustled as he put the pillow aside and carefully inched his way closer, taking great caution in keeping the weight off his right side.

"How's your leg?" she asked softly, as she felt his rough hand caress her cheek and his warm breath on her neck. There was nothing sexual in his gestures, he was just seeking out some reassurance and solace to get him through another long night. She was going to see to it that he got all he needed and then some.

"It's been better," he answered with well-practiced nonchalance. A trace of bitterness tinged his words, they were colored with ten years worth of pain, anger, disappointment, heartbreak.

"But it is feeling better than before."

"A little."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Not as glad as I am," he said with a dull, empty snicker.

While Cuddy was used to offering her comfort, giving him a shoulder to lean on, a friendly ear to air his troubles to, nothing could have prepared her for what he said next and the sadness in an otherwise straightforward sentence:

"I wish I could have carried you in here."

She cringed and felt her heart shatter into a million pieces.

"You're back in my home," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "You're here, that's all I want. That's all that matters to me, not whether you can carry me through a door."

"It matters to _me_," House replied blithely.

"Greg, all that matters is that we're together. You and me."

"For you that may be enough, but it's not enough for me. Not nearly enough. I want to carry you again. I want to have that feeling again."

"The feeling of carrying me? Why? Why does it matter so much?"

If House heard the uneasiness in her voice, his own voice didn't give it away. No apprehension in his words, just the sadness from before. "That's not what I meant. It was the way you looked at me, Lisa. You should have seen yourself. You were so happy for me. You don't have the slightest clue as to what that meant to me, and I want to have that feeling again."

The little things that meant everything to him. The ordinary, everyday things that everyone else took for granted, things he could only stand aside and watch others do. The resentment and frustration of watching everyone else do all the things he was once capable of doing without a second thought. Things he was able to do again for a too brief time, a rare second chance, only to see it all slip away...for the second time. She couldn't even begin to imagine how that felt.

"Will you think about what I told you?" She braced herself for another shouting match, unable to keep her voice from wavering and cracking anymore. "I can't promise you, I won't promise you, that the pain will be gone, but I can promise you that I will help in any way that I can."

"I know." He was quiet and calm, resigned to another round of talk about his pain and what, if anything, could be done about.

"Yes, you do, but why won't you accept it?"

"I never said I wouldn't. But I don't want just a little relief, I want _complete_ relief."

"A little may be all I can give you," she said. "I've got dozens of articles printed out and copied. Will you read them? Please?"

"I'll take a look at them. Just a look to see if there is anything actually worth reading."

She felt crushed under an immense wave of relief. It was much more than she could have ever hoped for at that point. Brushing a thumb across his cheek, Cuddy asked, "Will you consider counseling?"

"No," he said sharply.

"Please?"

"No."

"Alright...alright," she whispered. "I'll leave some articles on your desk. Please read them."

"We'll see," he whispered back, and gave her hand a soft kiss. "I can't, and won't, make any promises. Unlike you, I'm not very good at keeping them."


	31. Chapter 31

"Just read one article, Greg. You can promise me that."

"No, I can't. I don't break promises, I pulverize them."

"One article. That's all I ask."

"You're asking a lot, Lisa, and you know it."

"What exactly are you looking for in terms of pain management? I can help you narrow it down."

"I'll know it when I see it."

"How can you know if you won't even read one lousy article?"

"I'll know. Now get some rest or I'm not buying you any more ice cream."

* * *

There was a void that House felt compelled to fill, and Cuddy had long suspected that said void had been around longer than anyone would care to admit. Long before Stacy arrived on the scene, if not longer. Whatever he had lost, and it certainly had nothing to do with his leg, he was still looking under every proverbial rock, no matter how big or small, smooth or rough. There would be no stopping him until he found it, that is, if he even knows what the hell he's supposed to be looking for to begin with. The Vicodin eased more than one kind of pain left behind by having something vital torn away, taken from him without his consent. 

That may be one explanation for his possessiveness. House guarded whatever he considered to be 'his' with all the subtlety of an angry pit bull, and trespassers where often shot on sight or mauled to death. Only a chosen few were allowed into his inner sanctum, and then only if they had all their paperwork in order, in triplicate, and signed a confidentiality agreement. Well, maybe it wasn't that drastic, but it wasn't that far off. Cuddy had to wonder just how many little things her lover had revealed to her and no one else. What had House finally shared with her and what did he still feel the need to hide? What things would stay hidden forever?

No more answers were coming that night. The new silence in the room spoke louder than any words House could throw at her. That was perfectly all right; her thoughts began to blur together like smudged ink as the long day began to take the last of its toll. House's sense of possessiveness had grown to include her, his long arm draped over her after he had pulled up the covers to ward off the chilly night. She liked the fact that she was able to bring out that feeling in him. She felt safe and protected and loved with him, and could only that the feelings were half as strong in him. Or stronger. Who knows? _Either way is fine_, she thought in a sleepy haze.

* * *

"Rise and shine, boss." 

Cuddy blinked her eyes open. The lids felt heavy and scratchy. Was it really time to get up? Damn, it was. House reached over her and switched off the alarm.

She cuddled up to him as if she had all the time in the world and murmured, "Good morning."

"Top of the morning to you."

"Did you sleep?" She looked up at him, noting his eyes looked a bit tired and bloodshot.

"For a while."

"How are you feeling?"

"Just fine," he answered, as if sleeping four hours a night should be enough for everyone. "I ate the rest of the ice cream."

"You bought it."

"I bought it for you," he said. "Aren't you going to throw a hissy fit? I ate your ice cream. I know how protective girls are when it comes to their stash of sweets. It's a regular no-man's land, if you get my meaning."

"I'll throw a fit later. Will that be all right?" She rested her head on his chest and smiled when he began to twirl her hair around his musicians fingers.

"Name the time and place and I'll be sure to clear my schedule for it," he said. "I also drank a glass or two of your wine." Nothing in his voice indicated that he felt the least bit guilty about it. He was in a relatively good mood. Either he slept more than he realized or he was still buzzed from the thrill of snooping around her home and finding her wine stash while she was asleep.

"Two glasses, Greg?"

"Maybe three. I wasn't keeping track. Getting smashed in the middle of night kind of affected my memory."

"Wine and ice cream? That's quite a combination."

"I don't recommend it," House said, sitting up, ignoring Cuddy's grumbles of protest. "Fermented grape juice and chocolate covered almonds weren't really made to go together."

"I hope it didn't spoil your appetite for breakfast. I have waffles."

"Blueberry?" His face lit up like a kid eyeing a mountain of Christmas presents, all of which have his name on the tag.

"Of course. I also have some strawberry, if you're interested."

"Is there a coming waffle shortage that I don't know about? Do you have peach, apple cinnamon, and raspberry mint in there, too?"

"Not today," she answered, then cupped his chin and turned his head until their gazes met. "I'll leave the articles on your desk."

His tired eyes flickered. It came and went as quickly as spring lightning, too quick for her to catch it's meaning, if it had one. "Fine. Would you mind not leaving them out in the open for any idiot wandering the corridors to see, boss. Is a little discretion on your part too much to ask?"

"They'll be in an envelope."

"Sealed?"

"If you want."

"Yes, I do want," he said. "You're such a good boss. Have I ever told you that?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm telling you again."


	32. Chapter 32

When House went back to his office after he got tired of stealing food from Wilson's plate, there was a fat envelope in the middle of his desk. Sealed with packing tape. No name. He sat down and looked over his present. It was a good two inches thick. How many articles did she manage to cram in there?

_Such a good boss,_ House thought quietly and chuckled to himself.

He stuffed it into his knapsack. He'd look over the articles later that evening in the privacy of his apartment. No one else needed to see what was in the envelope. The last thing he was in the mood for was Wilson or Cameron taking a peak at his reading material and tossing question after question at him like sucker punches. The two had the same effect–they left him bruised and battered and dazed.

The truth was that he was a little curious as to what Cuddy had brought him. Just a little curious. He knew better than to hold out too much hope for some earth-shattering revelation to appear in the pages she had printed off. If he was lucky there would be a gold flake or two in the giant pile of useless granite that made up most medical articles he bothered to skim through. And therapy, that was a joke in itself. Seeking help from some idiot whose most painful experience was probably an ingrown toenail.

He wanted the gold mine, not just a nugget. If the vein led him down the dark, bottomless shaft, well, at least he can say that it wouldn't be a total surprise.

"You didn't throw it away, did you?" Cuddy stood in the doorway, eyeing the now empty spot on his desk.

"My trash can is empty, boss."

"I'll see for myself." She walked over to his trash can and peeked in just to annoy him. "Did you pay that little pyromaniac in Exam Room One to burn it for you?"

"No," House said. "It's in a safe place. I just put it away for later, that's all."

She sat on the edge of his desk. "How much later?"

"I'll look them over tonight."

"I hope you'll do more than just look."

"That's the best I can do. I've already told you that. I'm not going to make you a promise I have no intention of keeping. I'd rather not promise anything at all. And you wouldn't want me to either."

"I know, I know...There are treatments that don't involve Vicodin. I wish you would consider them."

"Such as...?"

"Well, I was reading about Bioelectric Therapy–"

"You want me to get _shock treatment_?" His jaw fell open. "Am I going to have a nice vacation in a rubber room too?"

"It's not shock treatment and you know it. That's just one of many–"

"But no Vicodin? Such a waste.Why bother?" he snorted.

"They might be able to help."

"They won't. I can tell you that right now."

"How do you know?" she said, scowling. His dismissive response to any kind of treatment suggestion was seriously beginning to grate on her nerves. "Being as you won't even consider an alternative, how do you know? Why am I even bothering with you?"

"I don't know," he replied stonily, leaning back in his chair and giving her his best stoic gaze. "Why are you? Why are you going through all this trouble if you know that I've already made up my mind? Were you just in the mood to murder some innocent trees, Lisa? Why are you wasting your time with me?"

She paused for a few long seconds before saying, "Being with you is not wasting my time. Trying to help you is worth all the trouble in the world. But this all-or-nothing approach you insist on _is_ a waste of time, for you and me."

"I won't settle for anything less."

"It doesn't work that way and you damn well know it."

"Maybe I do, but I know what I want." House drummed his fingers on the desk and looked at his boss expectantly. "What about _you_? What do _you_ want, Lisa?"

Cuddy frowned. "I want to see you get some help for your pain."

"Yes, I know," he said sincerely. "For the sake of argument, let's say I get...oh I don't know, Bioelectric Therapy and it doesn't do a damn thing for me. What then?"

"Then we try something else."

"We?" House raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, _we_ will try something else."

"We...," he muttered, like he couldn't understand the concept of thinking of themselves as a single unit. "Suppose nothing works."

"We keep looking for something that does," she answered. "Greg, you said that you wanted to carry me again. You said you wanted that feeling back."

"Yeah, so what of it?"

"You can't get that feeling back by doing nothing. I want you to think about that tonight." she said, then got up and left his office without looking back.


	33. Chapter 33

Dr. Lisa Cuddy padded back to her living room with what was left of her wine and sat in House's usual spot, putting her stockinged feet on the table. It was the best spot in the room to view the television and that's exactly why House took it over, even after his visits became more than just a test to see if she would let him in the door. No visitors that night and the house was too quiet. She clicked on the TV and flipped through the stations. Over one hundred channels and there wasn't a damn thing on. She finally settled on a lame made-for-television movie with Valerie Bertinelli.

She thought about calling House, even had her hand on the phone, but immediately thought better of it. That would be nagging. That would only piss him off. Let him read the articles in peace. Let him have the time to think about what his options are. Let him have his space, even if he has already thrown the articles across the room.

A faint roaring sound came from down the street, then pulled up into her driveway. It was only a little after eight o'clock. What the hell was he doing here? Why wasn't he back at his apartment reading those damn articles?

Apparently she was going to have to give up the good spot on the couch now.

She got up and opened the front door, watching as House limped his way up to the porch.

"What brings you by?" she asked.

"My motorcycle."

"What really brings you by?"

"I was in the mood for some waffles," he drolled, the porch lights making sparks fly from his eyes. They look more electrified than all the lamps on the block.

"I don't believe you."

"Then don't."

"Read anything interesting tonight?"

"No," he said, then breezed by her and made a beeline for the couch. Soon he was nice on comfy with his Converse sneakers on the table. He picked up the remote and switched it over to Court TV without bothering to ask if it was okay, not that he ever did to begin with.

Cuddy closed the door and locked it. Anger and sadness mixed in her until they were a cloudy combination. "Why the hell did I even bother?" she muttered just loud enough for him to hear. "You just came here to gloat that all the time I took doing that research for you was for nothing!"

"If I wanted to gloat all I had to do was call. You wanted to do the right thing," he replied without looking away from _Forensic Files_. "People like you always do, consequences be damned."

"And wasted my time. I should have known. All I did was waste my time. Thanks for nothing, Greg."

"No, you didn't waste your time," House said, finally making eye contact. "Lisa, I know you tried your damndest, and I appreciate the effort, especially when all that effort is for a bastard like me. But there was nothing in those papers that can't give me what I already have." He patted the cushion beside him. "Come here, boss."

She went over and sat beside him, staring at the floor. She felt his hand envelope hers; it was warm and rough, just like always.

"Did you even read them, Greg?"

"I read three or four of them and skimmed through the rest."

"Not one thing caught your interest? There wasn't one thing in there that you would be interested in trying?"

"Nope."

"What did you do with all those articles? Did you throw them in the trash?"

"Not yet. They're scattered all over the coffee table right now." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "Don't beat yourself up, boss. You tried. You really did. Nobody else has ever gone out on a limb like that for me."

Cuddy frowned. "It doesn't change anything. Your leg still hurts and you won't stop the Vicodin."

"I don't want some half-assed treatment that _might_ help. I've told you that. It's all or nothing. I can't take anything less."

"I wish you would reconsider."

"I'm not going to."

Cuddy felt a tug on her arm as House urged her to get closer. It was amazing how quickly the kind and gentle House could switch places with the stubborn son-of-a-bitch that he usually let take charge. Sure, he was a bastard, but that hardly meant that he enjoyed seeing her upset, especially when he was the one who made her that way.

"You were right about thing–all I did was murder some trees," she said, carefully draping her legs across his lap.

"It was for a good cause, even if that cause was as hopeless as mine."


	34. Chapter 34

"I'm just a jerk," House said as he gently nudged her legs off his lap. His leg was protesting even her slight weight on it.

"_Just_ a jerk?" Cuddy asked teasingly, hoping it wouldn't just piss him off even more than he was already and let them get to the bottom of whatever was bothering him. "Is that all there is to you?"

"I'm a jerk with a motorcycle and a cane."

"So?" Cuddy was glad to see that he wasn't closing himself off to her that night. Keep him talking, let him get a few things off his chest, no matter how long it took. "Is that supposed to be some sort of bombshell? Oh no, how could I ever let someone like you sit on my sofa? Should I start hanging garlic on the porch to keep you out of my house?"

"There's no need to get yourself so worked up over such a jerk."

"You _want_ me to worry about you, Greg. You want my attention or you would have stayed home tonight." Cuddy tucked her feet underneath her and wrapped her arms around his neck. From the corner of her eye she could see him grin in spite of himself. He had wanted to wallow in a bad mood and now she had to go and spoil it. What nerve. "I'm going to get all worked up anyway and you can't stop me," she added.

"Not even for a dozen Key lime pies?"

"I'd eat them, get fat, and still get worked up over you. So there."

"Mmm...the big boss stands her ground," he muttered, almost to himself.

"I didn't get to be the big boss by running away from every little sign of trouble."

"How very true," House muttered in the same quiet voice, something obviously on his mind and it wasn't about their current situation. "Even when that trouble takes over your living room several nights a week."

"I can handle it."

"I noticed."

"Does that surprise you?"

"Not especially. If you can handle me at the hospital, you can handle me in your own home," he replied, tilting her chin up until two sets of blue eyes locked together. "But there is something you can tell me. There's something I've always been curious about."

"Curious about what?"

House give her a diminutive smile. "Everyone knew I was trouble from the word 'go', boss. Nobody else would touch me with ten-foot pole, and you knew that; but for some strange reason Princeton-Plainsboro welcomed me into its hallowed halls. Why is that? Was the risk management department on vacation that week?"

"You were the best candidate for the job. It's as simple as that."

He laughed and said, "I'm going to be blunt here, Lisa."

"Be my guest."

"That's a load of pure bullshit if I ever heard any."

She arched her eyebrows. "Okay...why do you say that?"

"I wasn't the _only_ candidate for the job. There were plenty of other little eager-beavers who were just itching to be at your beck and call. They would just go with the flow and not give you one tiny bit of trouble. They would back down as soon as you told them 'no'. So I'm asking again, why was I picked for the job?"

"And I'm telling you again, you were the best candidate," Cuddy told him in all seriousness, because it was the absolute truth. "If you're expecting some kind of weird apology, you're not getting one because there's not one damn thing to apologize for. The hospital wasn't looking for some pansy-ass fool who would wither under my gaze. You were picked because you're not afraid to do your job."

House asked with genuine interest; he wanted to know the answer, even if it turned out to be the answer he didn't want to hear: "Even with all the complaints, all the arguing and screaming matches, all the money going towards the lawsuits, do you have any regrets?"

"No," she answered even before he was finished speaking. "There's a kindergarten teacher and a nun and a jazz musician who are very much alive and well because of you. Despite your utter and complete lack of bedside manner, I'm sure they'd have to admit that you are worth every single red cent."

"Is that what you think?" he asked, the interest to hear whatever the answer might be, good or bad, was still very much there.

"Absolutely. What else would I think?"

"I don't know." The diminutive smile returned. "That night I showed up here, after you told me why you didn't let Vogler fire me, did you think it would ever lead to this when you opened the door?"

"Not at all," Cuddy said. "I thought you came by just to annoy me some more."

"Did I annoy you?"

"A little."

"Well, I _did_ come by to annoy you. My diabolical plan worked."

Cuddy chuckled softly. "You never thanked me for the coffee, either."

"Will you think any less of me if I still don't thank you for the coffee?"

"I think I can let that slide."

"Good." The smile slowly faded. "There's one more thing I'd like to know."

"Yes?"

"Where were you when you found out I had been shot?"

Her mouth snapped open and then closed. She suddenly felt like she had been sucker-punched. "Why–"

"I just want to know," House replied, brushing some unruly strands of hair from her face.

"But–"

"I'm not accusing you of anything. You never told me and I'd like to know."

After taking a long, deep breath, Cuddy answered, "I had just got out of a meeting on the second floor. I was on my way back to my office. When I stepped out of the elevator there were four or five security guards racing up and down the corridors. The whole place had suddenly turned into a zoo. I managed to stop one guard long enough for him to tell me what was going on. I ran to the ER and found Chase. He said you were in surgery and told me what happened, that someone they had never seen before just walked in...Then Foreman and Cameron came out and said you wanted ketamine. All three had your blood splashed all over them."

"Did you think I was going to die?"

"Yes," she replied, looking away, as if confessing to a horrible crime.

"What did you do next?"

"I ordered the ketamine treatment. Then I went out to my car and screamed my head off for about fifteen minutes."

If anything Cuddy had said surprised House, nothing in his expression gave it away. "Were you there when I got out of surgery?"

"Yes."

"What did you do when you found out I was going to survive?"

"There was nothing left for me to do at the hospital. Cameron was already keeping an eye on you and she was going to stay there until she collapsed, then Foreman was going to take over. She all but kicked me out. And you were doing as well as someone who had been shot twice could be expected to do," she said with a humorless laugh at the memory. "So I went home, dozed off for about an hour, and was back at the hospital before the sun was up." She looked over her shoulder at him. "Why are you asking this now?"

"Because I wanted to know," he said simply, like they had scheduled this conversation and she had forgotten all about it.

"You could have asked me this _weeks_ ago."

"I've been meaning to ask but I never got around to it."

"But why now?"

"One of the articles you gave me mentioned someone who had been shot..."

"I see," Cuddy said dismissively, as if she wanted him to believe that she had suddenly made sense of the senseless. "Did you find out everything you wanted to know?"

"Yes, thank you," he said. "And thank you for the coffee."


	35. Chapter 35

"You stuck that article about the guy with the gunshot wounds in there on purpose," House said, more of a statement than a question. "Is that what you really wanted me to see?"

Cuddy pretended to be engrossed in a rerun of _Forensic Files_. "I would have put it in there anyway," she said absently, getting a little bit rattled at his relentless questions. He had made up his mind and there was no need for the third degree. "It was a good article."

"And it just happened to be about a man who was shot. I dunno, it all sounds a tad bit too convenient."

"You're not the only person to ever get shot, Greg."

House deftly overlooked her less than biting rancor. She was having an off-night all the way around. "Was it a coincidence that the man walked with a cane?" he had to ask.

"He just happened to get shot four times in the leg, and some doctor wrote an article about his pain management."

"_Quack_ is more like it," House grumbled.

It was Cuddy's turn to overlook his sarcasm. "Four bullets in his leg...it's a miracle he could walk at all."

"Bioelectric Therapy for the shooting victim...," House trailed off, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Break out the jumper cables, Nurse Ratched."

"It helped the man in the article. It can probably help–"

"Probably," he interrupted. "Not definitely. And it's only temporary, just like every other treatment you want me to try. Not interested. Now can we please drop it for right now? I'm not in the mood to deserve another slap."

She pressed on anyway. Maybe another slap would knock some sense into him. "With Bioelectric Therapy and conventional pain medications, your pain can be reduced by half," she said pointedly, making sure he was listening.

He was listening all too well. "Is that something you can promise me?"

"No," she answered sincerely and regretfully.

"I get my pain reduced right now with Vicodin, and I get nice and stoned in the process without getting zapped. No concrete promises means there's probably a snowball's chance in hell of it working for me. It's a lose-lose situation, boss. I see no need change what I'm doing right now." He turned and looked at her. "Lisa, my decision has been made. Now can we talk about this some other time? I don't want you to step on another broken bowl."

"Well, at least I've had a tetanus shot," she joked weakly and frowned, unable to hide her disappointment.

A look of concern clouded House's face. "I know you're angry with me right now, and I deserve it. But if you could walk a mile in my shoes and with my cane, you'd see why I choose all or nothing. And you don't want to be in my shoes."

"It has nothing to do with giving up the Vicodin?" she asked.

"I'm not going to lie you. That's part of it. Show me something that's better than Vicodin, something that can take my pain away _completely_, and I might be convinced to give it a whirl."

"You don't want to give up getting high. I knew it."

"No, you don't know anything at all. It's not like that," House began, shifting on the sofa to face her. "I'm already in enough pain; I don't need anymore. The fear of pain is worse than the pain itself and I live with the fear that my pain will get worse, every day and night. It's a risk I just can't take. You've seen me at my lowest, Lisa, and neither you nor I want to see me get any lower. For my sake and especially for yours."

Cuddy raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why for my sake?" She was honestly curious.

"It hurts in a completely different way," he explained, rubbing his bad leg, "but this hurts you as much as it hurts me. You don't need any more pain either."

She admitted, "No, we don't."

House blinked at the mention of the word 'we' and their implied shared pain. Different kinds of pain, but it still hurt like hell all the same. "Like I said, I didn't come here to gloat," he went on. "I made my final decision and figured you ought to know."

"All you had to do was call." She sat back and put her feet on the table, then watched House put his up not two seconds later. "Your leg is hurting, yet you ran over all the potholes to get here."

"My leg has hurt worse. You're worth a few potholes."

"Is your leg okay?"

"It'll be fine," he replied dismissively. "It's not that bad."

She couldn't tell if he was lying or not.

"You said I'm better than therapy," Cuddy reminded him, then reached over and took his hand.

"Mmm-hmmm...that I did." He remembered with a thin smirk.

"Is that why you came over instead of calling?"

"Since when do I ever call you just to chit-chat?"

"Since never."

"That's right. There's no need to start now." He leaned his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes. "We're both in pain, Lisa."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"It means you need prove to yourself that you did your best with me, and I need the one thing that's better than Vicodin."


	36. Chapter 36

"You got any wine, boss?" House asked, his eyes still closed.

"I'm sure I have a bottle or two somewhere."

"Red wine?"

"Do I drink any other kind?"

"Not yet. Would I be pushing my luck in requesting a glass or two?"

"You're not riding back home if you have some wine."

"I wasn't planning on it," he said, and rubbed his right thigh to make his point even clearer.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do," Cuddy replied with some relief, getting up. He didn't need to be out on the road tonight, red wine or not. His hurting leg was more than enough reason to keep an eye out. Then she turned back to him, puzzled. "Why do you think you're pushing your luck?" she asked. "What's that all about?"

House opened his eyes and met hers. "You sit there and hold my hand like nothing's wrong, but the fact of the matter is that you're still disappointed with how the whole 'pain management research' thing turned out."

"I am," she admitted with a trace of reluctance.

"How are you going to make me pay for it?"

"I'm supposed to make you pay for something that was your decision to begin with?" Cuddy said with a thin smirk. "How does that work?"

"It works because you're still my boss."

"Yeah...and...?"

"But you are disappointed with me."

"Yes."

"How many extra clinic hours are you going to give me?"

"Greg, I'm disappointed with your decision, all right?" she began with a heavy sigh. "In a perfect world you would have been in therapy years ago and you would be off the Vicodin. But I'm not going to be a passive-aggressive bitch and punish you over it. I've gotten over worse and I'll certainly get over this. Now do you want some wine or not?"

"A glass of wine would be great." A ghost of a smile appeared on his scruffy face. "No extra clinic hours?"

"If you really really want them..."

"Like hell I do."

"Just give me what you owe me and I'll be thrilled."

"I owe you a lot more than a few clinic hours," he remarked dryly, then turned back to the television.

* * *

House looked down at the bed and scowled. 

"You should be asleep," he muttered as Cuddy blinked up at him from the soft pink bed covers.

"You woke me up."

"You suck at lying, boss." He limped around to his side of the bed. "It's been nearly two hours since you kissed me goodnight. Now why aren't you asleep?"

He was using what she thought of as his stern teacher voice, reprimanding a student who should, and does, know better but still got caught anyway. Cuddy would have been amused if House didn't sound so serious. He didn't like her staying up all hours of the night with him. She guessed correctly that it was because he felt partly responsible for keeping her awake to begin with.

He did appreciate all she did for him, she knew that. She didn't have to work herself into a perpetual state of turmoil. Running the hospital was enough of a full-time job, she didn't need to spend all her overtime on something she had no control over.

"Because I'm not," she said, and it was more or less as much of an answer as she could give. "How come you get to stay up all night and I don't?"

House pulled back the covers and replied, "Because I said so, that's why." before leaning his cane on the night table and climbing into the bed. He winced as he lifted his right leg onto the bed.

Cuddy waited for him to settle in and get comfortable. "Okay, I was lonely and stayed awake waiting for you. How does that sound?" She propped up on her elbow and looked down at him, reversing their roles from just a minute ago.

"Considering my sleep habits, or lack thereof, it could have been a very long wait."

"You're worth the wait."

"Damn right I am," he snickered. "Have you done any research on insomnia?"

"A little."

"Just a little?" House didn't sound particularly surprised. "What did you find?"

"Nothing that could be considered earthshattering. Just the usual stuff–get some exercise, drink some warm milk before bed. Some articles mentioned that pomegranates can help insomniacs."

"And pomegranates helped Demeter create the winter months out of mourning for her daughter."

"What does that have to do with insomnia?"

"Nothing. Just I'd dazzle you with some useless knowledge of Greek mythology."

"Persephone was the daughter of Demeter," Cuddy said, stretching out and resting her chin in the crook of his neck. "She ate the four pomegranate seeds that made her stay in the Underworld four months out of the year. How's that?"

"You dazzle me, boss."

"It's amazing what you can find by clicking a link on Wikipedia," she said.

"So true. Sleepy yet, Lisa? Do you need some warm milk?"

"No," she replied with a genuine yawn. "Like I said, I was just waiting for you."

"And I'm _so_ worth the wait."

"Oh, yes."


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N: Well folks, I feel this story is reaching its conclusion, so I'll be winding things down over the next few chapters. Thanks to all my readers. I can't say enough good things about you guys!_

* * *

In the weeks before the shooting, back when she could call things 'normal' and say it with a straight face, Cuddy had entertained the idea of having House move in with her. 

They practically lived together anyway. She cooked meal after meal for him while he chatted away at the table. He played her requests at the piano. She was there for him when the pain got to be too much. They worked at the same hospital. They had their ups and downs, but didn't everyone? Nights apart were few and far between and always ended with an apology when time apart meant taking the time to cool off. It made perfect sense that they should just live under the same roof.

Of course it never got past the idea stage and she didn't think it ever would, but she still found herself thinking about it at odd moments, weighing the pros and cons, dreaming up ways to bring up the subject without sending him screaming into the streets.

Then some maniac decided to settle a mysterious grudge with a couple of bullets. The idea got shoved into the back of the closet as helping House through some of his darkest days and seeing that he got back on his feet was a tad more important. She briefly considered having him recover at her place, but decided that he would rest easier and more comfortably in his own apartment and all its familiar surroundings. She had all but moved in with him during those long weeks. He had his complaints, but it wasn't necessarily about all the time she spent nursing him back to health. He needed someone there for him whether he actually wanted it or not. Even the notoriously stubborn Gregory House had to admit that and accepted her help without too much groaning.

He was stretched out next to her, draped in the pink sheets and flowery comforter, his long legs hanging over the side of the bed. His head rested on half her pillow, leaving her very little room to move. She couldn't move him without waking him up and stayed put. Though he had complained several times that he didn't like her bed, that never once stopped him from sleeping in it. His warm breath puffed against her neck, rough stubble scratched on her shoulder. Berating her about being awake didn't have the desired effect, Cuddy was still far from dreamland. House had tossed and turned and grumbled for a good half hour before he finally relaxed and gathered her up in his arms like a stuffed animal.

There were times when he needed something she couldn't provide. Sometimes he needed to be alone, needed to be cut off from the rest of the world for a while. Take refuge in his apartment, his own space. That was a freedom he needed. Closing himself off in a room of her home wasn't the same thing. His apartment was his sanctuary. That was one thing she couldn't deny him, even if she didn't always agree with the reasons he closed himself off.

House wouldn't move in with her. She knew better than to bring it up.

He was perfectly content with their arrangement, and just as with the pain management, he would see no reason to change it.

Maybe someday he would change his mind. If that day ever came she would buy a bigger bed.

* * *

House pretended to be sleeping and tried to just let himself enjoy the feeling of being close to her, the smell of the lavender fabric softener on the freshly washed linens, and the wonderful scent that was Lisa Cuddy. There was no need to spoil the silence with words at the moment. There had been too many angry and bitter words between them over the last few days. The early morning silence was a welcome relief. He wanted nothing more than to get some rest and put the last few days behind him, but his still wide awake mind insisted on wandering all over the place without proper supervision. 

Cuddy said she didn't have any regrets when it came to him. House was sure she wasn't telling the whole truth, that she had to have one or two. Everybody did. Regrets were a part of life. Anyone who claimed to have no regrets was a liar or completely insane. He was also sure that he was better off not knowing what her regrets were.

He had his fair share of regrets. Too many to count. He regretted calling her a stupid bitch. He regretted that his pain and anger had got the better of him. He regretted losing his temper and taking it all out on her. Thinking about it made him cringe inwardly as a bolt of guilt stabbed through his heart. The slap had almost been a good thing. It had stopped him cold, made him take a step back and look at what he was doing to himself and to her. It was a slap that he whole-heartedly deserved, but a slap nonetheless and it stung just the same. Thankfully the palm-shaped bruise had faded quickly. The stares from patients and strangers on the street were nerve-wracking.

No matter what, she could never truly understand his pain and what it did to him, and the terrible person it could turn him into. That sure as hell didn't stop her from trying. Unless she was willing to have an infarction in her leg and have a muscle removed, she should just focus on something else. But she wouldn't. She would never give up. Typical tenacious Dr. Cuddy. Nothing would make her give up. Like a dog that grabs hold of a pant leg and won't let go she was bound and determined to understand, or at least convince him that she did. It was a lost cause, but if she was going to lose she going to make sure that nobody could say she didn't try.

She still wasn't asleep. He could tell by her shallow breathing. He chose to keep the silence, grumbling at her wasn't going to instantly change anything. If she wanted to stay up all night then let her. Let her see what she was missing, which was absolutely nothing. Fingernails began to lightly trace along his scalp. His favorite thing in the world. Well, make that his second favorite. His favorite thing was having Lisa Cuddy by his side.

That was his favorite thing in the whole world.


	38. Chapter 38

"There's still an hour before the alarm goes off," House grumbled as Cuddy switched on the lamp. The light flooded the room, making him squint. He grumbled at that too.

"I'm aware of that," she replied blithely, turned back and propped up on her elbow, staring down at his scruffy, tired face. He had slept all of four and a half hours and would be up for the next twenty whether he wanted to be or not.

He stared back up at her and didn't reciprocate her faint smile.

"You are aware that you're allowed to sleep for that hour," he said. "That's why alarms were invented, so you don't have to constantly wake up and check the clock."

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I learned how to tell time before kindergarten."

"An overachiever even at that young age. That's so _you_."

"And I could count to fifty."

"You would have taken SAT prep courses then if you could. You would have taken the SAT and picked out a college then if they would have let you." He finally caved in and gave her a reluctant smile. "Lisa, you don't have to be awake just because I am. You keep it up and you're going to find out that insomnia isn't all it's cracked up to be."

"How so?"

"It's _boring_ for one thing."

"Surely a brilliant doctor such as you can find something to do to pass the time," Cuddy pointed out, and bent down to give him a light kiss.

He grinned wickedly. "I can think of one special activity I like that passes the time in a very nice way, but you're usually asleep then. And it's no fun by myself."

"Is sex all you ever think about?" she teased, knowing full well it was on his mind at least eighty percent of the time.

"_Is_ there something else worth thinking about? Please tell me, I'd like to know."

"I'd like to think so. Since we're both up, how about a little treat?"

"A treat? For me?" House sounded pleased and pushed his restless hands under her shirt. Cuddy caught his wrists and refused to let them go any further. "Oh, damn," he complained, "I take it you didn't mean this kind of treat."

Cuddy gently pushed his hands away. "Not right now. Can you and your libido calm down long enough for me to take you out and buy you some breakfast?"

"_Buy_ breakfast, not make? My, aren't you full of surprises this morning. Maybe you'll do well with insomnia after all." House was already throwing off the covers and reaching for his cane. "Was the store out of your blueberry waffles?"

She got up and stretched, well aware that he was enjoying his Jim Morrison shirt hugged her curves. "As a matter of fact, yes. Plus I have only two eggs left and the only cereal in the house is Grape Nuts."

"Rocks and soy milk aren't my idea of a good, nutritious breakfast, boss."

"Then hurry up and take a shower. I'm famished."

As House limped out of the room, he called over his shoulder, "I want strawberry pancakes with whipped cream. Yummy!"

* * *

The heaping plate of strawberry pancakes piled with an avalanche of whipped cream was set down and House's face broke into a face-splitting grin, making him look like a kid who just got a shiny new red bike for his birthday. All Cuddy could do was shake her head and turn back to her plate of fruit. House didn't talk about his childhood much, make that _never_, leaving to wonder if he did ever get a bike for his birthday or Christmas, or did traveling all over the world put a cramp in some of the usual childhood rites of passage. She made a mental note to ask him about it later. 

"How come you never make stuff like this?" House asked, peering at her over the mountain of his breakfast.

Nibbling on a chunk of watermelon, she said, "It's fattening and it's not good for you."

"So why did you buy these for me then?" He raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer.

"Because that's what you wanted. That's your treat."

"What brought this on?"

"I wanted to do something nice for you, and you wanted that strawberry stuff."

"Actually, I wanted something else." His eyes glinted with mischief. "Breakfast was your idea, remember?"

"Tell your raging hormones to cool off for a while, Dr. House," Cuddy said, even as she began to playfully run her foot up and down his leg. A fork of pancakes dripping with strawberries and cream froze in midair as House stared wide-eyed at his lover across the table. "We still have a long day ahead of us."

"Would you stop doing that with your foot, please?" the diagnostician said in a low, shaky voice. He threw a quick glance around the rapidly filling restaurant, grateful that no one was sitting next to them and the table blocked out the view from the rest of the bleary-eyed public. But they couldn't stay there all day.

"I don't want to."

"Lisa, please, I'm being serious."

"You're actually being serious? Why?"

"Because I won't be able to leave this place without causing us a whole lot of embarrassment, that's why."

Thankfully she got the point and slipped her foot back into her shoe before things got out of his control.

House let out a breath and muttered, "Damn, and you complain about _my_ raging hormones? Why couldn't you do that earlier?"

"I wanted something to eat first," she answered simply. "I'll make it up to you later."

"Damn right," he said. "I'll bring the whipped cream."


	39. Chapter 39

"You managed to bring him in early." Wilson gaped at his boss and his friend as they stepped into the lobby. "And he's not throwing a fit. What did you do to him?"

"It involved whipped cream," House smirked, and watched with immense delight as the oncologist blushed. "Yummy."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "I really don't need that image in my head this early in the morning."

House smirked even wider. "I do. It's the only reason I get out of bed. And the only reason I get in bed too."

"I took him out for breakfast," the Dean of Medicine clarified, fumbling for her office key. "He had strawberry pancakes. Now he's bouncing off the walls from the sugar rush."

The brown-eyed man raised an eyebrow in question. "And you thought that was a good idea because...?"

"He's up and he's here," she answered. "Anything that can get him over here without too much trouble is okay in my book."

House leered at his lover. "All those strawberries and whipped cream wasted on _breakfast_. That should be a crime."

"Down boy," she said. "Get your work done today and I'll see about dessert later."

"With strawberries on top?

"We'll see."

"Sleeping with the woman in charge certainly has its perks," the diagnostician said to Wilson.

"And its drawbacks," Cuddy broke in. "I want your patient files updated or I'm sending you to bed without any dessert."

"Slave driver," House muttered as he and Wilson turned to the elevator. "Typical woman. There always has to be a _catch_.

"You can't have whipped cream without the 'whipped', House. Remember that!" Cuddy called from the doorway of her office.

The diagnostician stared slack-jawed at her, then at her closed office door until Wilson pulled him out of his trance and onto the elevator.

"So...," the oncologist began with more than a little hesitation. "Is she, uh, saying that you're...um...whipped?"

"In what sense?"

"In the sense that she has you wrapped around her little finger and as long as she keeps you satisfied in the bedroom, you'll continue to follow her around like a little puppy dog who is eager to please and actually get your work done. Does that ring a bell?"

"Not at the moment."

"You're whipped, House."

The diagnostician grinned. "Am I? Well, let me tell you a little secret: it should be 'as long as _I_ keep _her_ satisfied in the bedroom'. And she wants me whether I get my files caught up or not. I'm just that good."

"So you're not whipped?"

"Not yet."

"What do you mean 'not yet'? You either are or you aren't."

"We're saving the whips and chains for a special occasion." House looked his friend in the eye. "Maybe if you're a good little boy, get your work done and finish all your veggies, we'll let you watch the videotape."

* * *

Cuddy looked over his suspiciously clean desk. "Where are your patient files?" 

"My guess would be the filing cabinet," House leaned back in his chair and put his feet up. "But you might want to double-check. I might have put some extra blood-pressure cuffs in there by accident."

"Are they up-to-date?"

"I don't know, are they? Are we talking about blood-pressure cuffs or files? I'm getting confused."

"Answer me. Are your files up-to-date?"

"You're the boss. You should know if they are or not. Why don't you tell me, Dr. Cuddy."

She didn't respond, just stood at his desk and tapped her foot.

"You're not chewing me out. How interesting," he noted. "So either you know I got my files caught up and are just trying to humor me or you don't know the answer and are trying to get a confession out of me. What happened, Lisa? Were all your spies too busy to check up on me or did the hidden camera not work?"

"Did you finish your files?"

"Which answer will get me laid?"

"Let's hear your answer and find out."

"Now would be a good time to let you in on the huge flaw of your 'no dessert' plan, boss."

"What flaw?"

"No dessert for me means no dessert for you, either. In this case the sexual blackmail cuts both ways. Why don't you just admit that you can't wait to rip my clothes off, files or no files, and get it over with. I won't hold it against you."

"So," she began, narrowing her eyes, "you didn't update one single file today, did you?"

"Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't," he replied. "Files have never been my number one priority and they never will be. You hired me to be a doctor, not a file clerk."

"Keeping up with your patient files is part of your job."

"Yes, it is. Why are you hounding me about them _now_? Are we being audited or something? What's next–no dessert until I clean off the whiteboard and empty the trash can?"

"Files, Greg. Did you do them?"

"They're either done or they'll be done when I'm ready to do them. Just like any other time. You're more than welcome to watch me clean the whiteboard."

They regarded each other in silence, waiting for the other to blink.

"Meet me at my place," Cuddy said.

"Meet?" House puzzled. "Are you taking the long way home?"

"I've got an errand to run."

"What errand?"

She gave him a wicked, curling grin. "I need to get a couple of yummy things from the store."


	40. Chapter 40

_A/N: This here is the last chapter -sniff- Thanks to all my readers and your wonderful reviews. Without you I'm nothing!_

* * *

It didn't take Cuddy very long to pick up the goodies, and she arrived home only twenty minutes after House parked himself at the table with a less than subtly stolen glass of her wine. She gave him a curling smile as she breezed by and set the grocery bag on the counter. Unable to resist, House got up and poked around the bag. He smelled the strawberries before he saw them. 

"Mmmm...boss lady comes through again."

"That's why I make the big bucks," she said, putting the containers of strawberries in the sink. "And I needed them because these weren't exactly cheap."

"Where's the whipped cream?" House said, still pawing through the contents like a raccoon.

"It's in there."

"Where?"

She reached into the bag and pulled out a small carton. "Right here," she said, setting it down.

"That's not whipped. That's liquid." House scowled and narrowed his eyes at the suspiciously tiny carton. He double-checked and found no plastic tubs. "Where's the Cool Whip?"

"Cool Whip tastes too fake so I decided to get the real thing. Haven't you ever had real whipped cream before?"

"No."

"Are you serious?" She gaped at him like he had three heads "Not even on pies during holidays?"

"Mom always used Cool Whip because that's what Dad liked."

"What about you? What did you like?"

"It was Cool Whip or nothing, so I liked it, too."

"Well then," she gave him another curling, knowing grin as she set a box of powdered sugar next to the carton of cream, "you're in for a real treat, Dr. House. You haven't lived until you've had the real thing." She opened up the cupboard and reached for a large bowl and the mixer.

House leaned against the fridge and watched with a strange combination of genuine curiosity and a faint hurry-up-already scowl as Cuddy mixed the cream and powdered sugar together. Nothing was said, not that there was much to say over the dull roar of the mixer. House just quietly watched as she expertly used the spatula to fold the cream into the twin beaters. Before long there was a fluffy white cloud peaking over the bowl. The beater shut off and she handed him the spatula.

"Taste this and tell me if I need more sugar before I over do it."

"I might get my cooties all over your spatula," he smirked.

"Just taste it, Greg. Is it any good?"

He regarded the cream, then her for a few moments, then took a generous sample. "Oh _yeah_," he exclaimed with undisguised glee. "Now that's what I'm talking about."

"You like?"

"This kicks Cool Whip's sorry ass up and down the Jersey coast," he replied, then licked the spatula clean.

"I told you so. It needs to set for a few minutes. Open the fridge." Cuddy picked up the bowl and looked at him expectantly.

"I want the beaters."

"Open the fridge and they're yours."

The fridge was opened and the beaters were out of the mixer before Cuddy set the bowl on the top shelf and closed the door. She glanced over House, who slurping the whipped cream off the beaters like a little boy eating an ice cream cone, then got out another bowl and a strainer for the strawberries. Another silent interlude as House watched her dump the fat strawberries into the strainer, then run cool water over them until she was satisfied.

She reached for a small knife and asked, "You sure you're up for another mound of strawberries and whipped cream?"

"I'm always ready," was his deadpan reply.

"Can you handle another big sugar rush?"

"Can you handle me if I don't?" he leered. "You bought that stuff, this morning and right now. I'm beginning to think this is all a set up–you want me to crash and burn, then get out the thigh-high boots and leather catsuit and spank me for being a bad boy."

"No, that's what _you_ want." Cuddy sliced the fruit into the bowl. "I just want to finish making this snack here, and play some fun bedroom games that don't involve whips and leather."

"Looks like I picked the perfect place to crash," he said, then quickly stole a strawberry. "Whether it be whips and chains or fresh fruit and dairy products, I'm going to show you how to have some fun with them. Maybe I should just go ahead and move in so I can get this kind of fun every night."

Thankfully she had paused to rinse off some sticky juice from the knife handle or she might have sliced her thumb off when he said those words. For a split second the room went out of focus and her ears rang. He was only kidding, didn't mean a word of it, and he was too busy trying to steal another strawberry to notice her reaction. Without missing a beat she swallowed the lump in her throat and went back to her task. Keep the mood light. This was a treat for both of them. No reason to spoil it because of some ill-timed comment he didn't know the significance of.

"Tomorrow you can buy the strawberries," she teased. "And the right side of the closet is mine."

"In other words, I get enough space to hang three shirts," he chuckled. "No thanks."

"My place isn't good enough for you anymore?"

"It's not that it isn't good; I wouldn't sleep here if I thought your place totally sucked. You tell me, Lisa, where in the world would I put my piano?"

"You can put it in the garage."

"You're too kind. When the humidity rots it from the inside out, you can pay for another one. A decent baby grand can run around seven thousand, if not more. You're good for it."

"Why don't you keep your piano nice and dry where it is. That'll save us both some cash and a headache."

He reached for another strawberry. She smacked his hand away. "Leave them alone or there won't be any left!"

"Killjoy."

"Thief."

"That's _my _line."

"Not anymore." The strawberries were finished, cut into perfect halves. She washed the leafy tops and few berries that didn't pass inspection down into the garbage disposal.

"Time to get out the whipped cream, boss?" House smiled down at his lover.

She smiled back and gently brushed her thumb along his stubbly chin. "Please do."

–The End.


End file.
